


Finding My Way Back to You

by Elly3981, Falchion1984



Category: Final Fantasy Tactics
Genre: A butt load of OCs, Art Included!, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2018-08-11 21:02:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 34
Words: 347,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7907548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elly3981/pseuds/Elly3981, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Falchion1984/pseuds/Falchion1984
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brought back to life by the power of the Holy Stone, former knight templar Izlude Tingel is finally able to keep his promise to Alma Beoulve whom he died to protect and searches for her throughout post-Lion War Ivalice. Meanwhile, Ramza marries Agrias and settles in Lionel as Duke 'Drake Seymour' while the new King Delita Hyral the First restores order in Ivalice. Sequel to 'When Love Awaits' and the canon FFT story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Return

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Final Fantasy Tactics or any of its characters; they are all the property of Square-Enix. I write this fic for your enjoyment only (and mine too) I hope you like it! This is the sequel to my Alma/Izlude fic 'When Love Awaits' and I strongly recommend reading that one first if you have not yet, otherwise, you may find the plot confusing. This story will cover Izlude's journey to find Alma after the Lion War when she and her brother are presumed dead by the rest of Ivalice. On a note, I wish to thank my co-writer and editor, Falchion1984, who helped me get this sequel going; I've been wanting to write it for so long but have been plagued with a bad case of writer's block. I hope our readers will continue to inspire us with your feedback. Now on with the show! ;)

_Please promise me one last thing before I go…_

_Anything…_

_Don't ever forget me…_

_I could never…good-bye, my love…_

These were the last words Izlude Tingel heard before his world became silent, a deathly hush falling over him just as surely as the darkness once the demon Hashmalum had destroyed his vision only moments before.

Moments, during which, the life he had known had been upended...and then cut short.

Just as his last words left his mouth, what little sensation remaining to him was stolen away as a heavy coldness settled over his entire body, causing his slumped form to go slack and his ravaged eyes to close for the last time.

Moments later - or perhaps decades, he couldn't tell which - the chill seemed to thaw by the barest degree. Stranger still, the bloodied sockets that had once been his eyes somehow saw light intruding upon the gloom.

The young knight blade soon found himself, to his amazement, upright and whole...but, not quite. As he stared at his hands, he could see partway through gauntlet, flesh, and bone to the bloodied stones of Riovanes Castle.

With trepidation, he turned and saw his mortal body, lying slumped and lifeless amidst a small sea of sticky crimson.

He was dead, then. Though this revelation was no surprise, it coaxed a credible imitation of a sigh from his ethereal lips. Though his heart no longer pumped blood through his veins, he could swear that he felt it sink at the prospect of what must come next.

All his life, he'd been a God fearing man. And, having seen a Lucavi demon rise out of scripture to kill him, and the knowledge that his ignorance had given rise to this evil, he shuddered to think what the final judgment had in store for him.

He had much to answer for.

He had seen the change which had overtaken his father after his mother's passing, but turned a blind eye when he should have seen that Vormav had been corrupted.

He had sacked Orbonne Monastery at the behest of the Lucavi demon who'd worn his father's skin, slaying Father Simon and many other priests who'd done no wrong.

He had taken Alma Beoulve against her will, unwittingly spiriting her into the death trap Riovanes Castle had now become.

He had taken up arms against Alma's brother, Ramza, and was deaf to his warnings that the Church of Glabados was tainted by evil.

He had fallen in love with Alma, and she with him, but he had denied her a proper marriage bed by succumbing to his desire for her.

He had signed the death warrant of Sir Justin, and possibly Malak and Alma as well, by not taking them from the castle before his father's fateful summons.

He had much to answer for.

As if in answer to his unspoken realization, the back wall of the austere chamber suddenly crinkled back upon itself, revealing a coiling tendril of smoky mist, spiraling downward like a stairway down into bowels of the earth...or into hell.

Only fitting, I suppose, that I should pay for serving Lucavi with an eternity in his domain, he mused sadly.

A memory of tears gathered in the wraith-like orbs that now served as his eyes, which grew all the more palpable as he found himself wondering what might have come to pass if he'd chosen differently in his last fateful hours.

Would he and Alma have escaped together?

Would he, or they, have met Ramza again, to aid in his battle against the tides of darkness encroaching upon Ivalice?

Would he have found some way to wrest his father's soul back from Lucavi?

Would he and Alma have wed, raised a family, and grown old together as he promised?

He had no answer; indeed, part of him wondered at the point of even asking the question. Yet, as he descended the misty spiral to whatever dire fate awaited him, he found those dreams the only thing that kept him from total despair...

.. indeed, they were all he had left.

After what felt like centuries of walking down the misty stairs to the ground, and then through it, he expected to behold a wasteland of fire and brimstone, overrun by lesser kindred to the monster that had torn away his life.

He was not expecting to behold the antechamber of Orbonne Monastery.

Before he could make sense of this confounding turn, Izlude heard a voice calling out to him, a voice that was not of this world.

_Return…_

_What?_

_Return to the ones with the right mind…_

_I don't understand; who is it that speaks to me?_

Izlude's ghostly form roamed the terribly familiar room, seeking the source of the otherworldly voice. Making use of his new form, he floated between the upper and lower levels and walked through walls, seeking even an echo of whoever or whatever had called out to him.

Whether it was by design or fluke, he could not say; but, when he alighted upon the very spot where he'd first laid eyes upon Alma, he discovered the answer.

Ahead of him were two figures, partly lost in shadow. Though he could discern little of their faces, he could see that neither had the horns, bat wings, or pointed tails he'd half expected to be commonplace in the realm his departed spirit would now reside.

More curious still, though he could not make out their faces, they felt so...familiar.

When the two figures approached, he could see that it was a man and a woman. And, when they emerged fully into the light, a gasp echoed through the strange, purgatorial chamber.

The woman was his mother.

Though he had precious few memories of the woman who had died of illness when he and his sister were children, he was certain it could be no other.

When he turned to see the other figure, he saw that it was his father.

Remembering all too well that this was the same man who'd become a leonine demon and gutted him with his claws, Izlude leaped back in horror and instinctively fumbled for the sword he'd left with his own corpse.

Yet, as his father drew closer, his burgeoning panic suddenly subsided.

The man who'd given him his life, and then taken it, could not have been more different than the man who now stood before him.

Whereas Vormav's expression had always been stern, drawn, and terribly severe, this man's face was, in equal parts, softened by affection and marred by regret. What's more, Izlude could see none of the Zodiac demon's malice on the older man's face.

For the first time in years, he looked upon the face of his real father, the father he had loved and respected.

For a terribly long moment, Izlude could only stare at the spirits of his parents, the wispy mass that had once been his heart, already heavy with regret, now pressing down upon him with impossible weight.

 _Father… I am so sorry, I have failed you…_ the shame-faced Izlude choked out as he lowered his head, unable to look the man who'd sired him in the eye.

The ghostly apparition that had once been Vormav seemed to glide across the room, cupping his son's face with hands which, though seemingly no more than mist, held a warmth that Izlude found almost tangible. Then, with those same misty hands that seemed impossibly solid, he forced Izlude to look into his dark-green eyes.

 _No, my son,_ Vormav intoned with a sad shake of his head. _You did no such thing. It is I who have failed you. You and Meliadoul have suffered so much for so long because of my weakness. I could not protect the both of you the way a father should and for that, I am sorry…_

Perhaps it was seeing the father he had known before Hashmalum's vile influence had taken hold. Or, maybe it was learning that his father did not fault him for attempting to destroy the demon that had possessed his body for so many years after his death. Whatever the reason, the leaden regret in Izlude's heart of fog softened.

_Please, you don't have to apologize, father. I am grateful to see you again, the real you that I remember, even…wherever or whatever this place is. And you, as well, mother. I've missed you both so much…_

_We've missed you too, Izlude, his mother said. As for what this is, you might say things are about to come full circle._

_I...don't_ _understand._

_Just watch._

As if on cue, a door in the upper level of the ghostly chamber burst open. Izlude whirled, and the sight he beheld sent the memory of chills up what used to be his spine.

It was Vormav, or more accurately, the Zodiac demon, Hashmalum, who had previously sheathed leonine claws into his heart.

He was flanked by his Templar lieutenants, Rofel and Kletien, and, at his gesture, a contingent of Templar knights streamed down the stairs and through the doors leading to the library of Orbonne.

Izlude barely noticed this, however. His gaze had alighted upon an all too familiar woman who was slung over his murderer's shoulder.

A credible imitation of a snarl parted his lips and he bellowed a challenge to Hashmalum, but the demon in human guise didn't seem to hear him. And, when the knight blade floated up to bar the demon's path, his nemesis simply strode right through him and into the depths of the monastery, leaving Izlude to curse his helplessness.

The knight blade's incredulity, however, was suddenly snuffed out when the dense mass of fog that now served as his mind registered the peculiarity of what he'd just witnessed.

Hashmalum had Alma, and she was alive...but, why?

If she could not bring herself to stab Izlude through the heart while he'd feigned sleep, she certainly could not have overcome Hasmalum, nor even the shell of Vormav which the demon inhabited. What's more, from what Alma had told him during their time in Riovanes, the Beoulve girl knew a great deal about the church's corruption and Lucavi's machinations.

Why, then, would Hashmalum let her live?

And, for that matter, why would he take her here? None of the accounts of the battle against Lucavi which he'd read drew any correlation between demonkind and the site of the isolated monastery whose ghostly shadow he now beheld...

...but, then again, those same accounts said the demons had been soundly vanquished, and Izlude already knew how much truth there was to that claim.

 _What is this?_ he demanded once he'd regained his composure. _Why would fath...Hashmalum take Alma alive? And, is this scene even real?_

 _It is quite real,_ his true father answered in a sober tone. _Or, at least, it will be. For now, however, you must watch and take note._

Some flow of mist between his wraith-like ears told Izlude that his father would not have advised him to be patient if there wasn't a good reason, but the knight blade's congealed blood was too hot to listen.

_Is this supposed to be my penance, watching the woman I love being used as a demon's plaything and being unable to do anything about it?!_

In life, his parents might have reacted sternly to such an outburst. Now, however, both regarded him with expressions that were almost expectant.

Expectant of what, however, Izlude could not guess.

 _What did you mean when you said things would come full circle?_ he asked. _Why are we here? Is this some sort of purgatory?!_

His mother laughed. _Not quite, my son. But, the fact that you are here means that you have died..._

 _So, this...whatever it is, it's not a dream… I really am dead…_ Izlude said, his voice little more than a whisper. When his gaze alighted upon Vormav, he saw once more the bereavement on the older man's face, leaving no doubt in Izlude's mind that his father knew exactly how his son died.

On the heels of that revelation came the memory of his ill-fated battle with Hashmalum, how the leonine demon had easily overwhelmed the young knight blade and left him on death's door, and, of course, how Alma had tried and failed to save him and how, in his last moments, she said she loved him and would never forget him.

He thought he heard himself call out to her, but then realized that the voice he heard belonged to another.

Ramza!

Sure enough, Ramza, the youngest son of the Beoulve family, branded a heretic by a church now enthralled by Lucavi, charged down the stairs and angled for the door Hashmalum had passed through earlier. Though he was little more than a blur of motion, Izlude could not help but be amazed at this boy. For, though Ramza looked every bit as boyish as he had when he and Izlude had crossed swords, he nonetheless looked every bit the warrior that Balbanes Beoulve had been. Power seemed to fill even his slightest motion while the intensity in his big blue eyes seemed to sear the very air.

If Ramza was here to confront Hashmalum, Izlude felt somehow certain that the outcast Beoulve would succeed where he had failed.

A few steps behind the charging Ramza were several other warriors. Izlude recognized one or two who'd fought at Ramza's shoulder when the knight blade had locked swords with the supposed heretic. There was Agrias Oaks, formerly of the St. Konoe Knights - or, as nearly all referred to them nowadays, the Lionsguard - and Mustadio Bunansa, a machinist from Goug, both of whom had been painted as an accomplice in Ramza's alleged crimes.

Other familiar faces were revealed, and these caused the mass of fog that was Izlude's jaw to part in stupefaction.

There was Malak!

The Hell Knight had somehow escaped the massacre at Riovanes, a realization that helped the pain in Izlude's stilled heart. At Malak's heels was Rafa, his twin sister, and her apparent survival and reconciliation with her brother eased the memory of a relieved sigh from the ethereal knight blade.

Izlude's already gaping jaw nearly fell to the floor, however, when he spied a man who appeared to be the legendary Thunder God Cid amongst the small procession. And, before he could catch his breath, whatever that might mean in his post-corporeal form, he spied Meliadoul amongst Ramza's companions as well.

What relief he felt at her survival was promptly stolen away, however, when he saw her face.

Meliadoul had always been a multi-faceted woman. He could recall from his childhood many a time she'd handle his instruction in swordplay, and how no amount of fraternal affection could buy him a reprieve from her stringent and demanding training regimen. Yet, he could also recall that, before she'd even mopped her brow after what, for him, was a nightmarish exercise, she'd bat her eyes flirtatiously at every knight whose paths she crossed and that she'd reward those with the backbone to meet her gaze with her bell-clear laughter.

He saw neither facet in her now, however.

Indeed, her face was utterly, terribly blank. No less disconcerting, her once lambent green eyes now had all the luster of a patch of dead moss. Meliadoul, he realized, must've learned the truth of his death and their father's corruption.

And, that blow had done terrible harm to the vivacious sister he's known and loved.

Though he found himself wondering who or what would be listening, he nonetheless said a quick prayer that his sister might find some happiness when the battle she raced towards came to an end.

He did not pray for Alma, however, for he sensed that Ramza's close pursuit meant that her rescue was well in hand. She'd had tremendous faith in her youngest brother, and Izlude somehow felt as if he now shared it.

 _Is this what you wanted to show me?_ he asked his parents, though his gaze remained fixed on the door. _You wanted me to see that Alma would be saved before I came with you?_

 _You are right that we wanted to ease your worries, Izlude_ , his mother answered. _But, you cannot come with us. Not just yet, at least. It's still not your time…_

_I don't understand. I just died, didn't I?_

_Yes, that is true. But, there is still something you must do…_

_And, that is?_

_My child, have you forgotten your promise to Alma already?_

_Alma…_

_You love her, don't you? You gave your life for her…_

_I do…more than anything. But, what can I do now? I am no longer alive…_

_The stone, my son._

The same stone which had driven the father he'd loved from his body, allowing a demon to take the shell for his own nefarious purposes? If it were possible for a ghost to blanch, Izlude did so, backing away as though expecting either of the figures before him to transform just as Vormav had done back in Riovanes. Yet, instead, his mother unleashed nothing more fearsome than her husky laughter.

 _I suppose I should have expected that reaction_ , she admitted. _Calm yourself, Izlude. The stones are capable of much evil, that is true. But, they have much potential for good as well. By now, Ramza knows this quite well, I imagine._

_What do you mean?_

_Your friend, Malak, died at Riovanes. He was killed by the man he'd called father when he learned of how the Grand Duke had betrayed him._

_But, that doesn't make sense. If Malak died, then how could he be accompanying Ramza?_

_The stones' power is given shape, and purpose, by those who use it,_ his father spoke up. _I was aggrieved, angered, and terribly, terribly short-sighted. The stone, its darker_ facet _, took advantage of that. Yet, a stronger mind, a stronger heart, one not consumed by grief and bitterness? One who would use power to safeguard the innocent and defend the weak? Such a person can bend the stones to his will. Ramza did that, and Malak's soul returned._

_Wait, returned? I heard a voice telling me to return before I came...well, here._

_Indeed, my son,_ his mother affirmed. _That was the voice of the stone that yet lingers near your shell. It is just as capable of good as it is of evil. And, it knows your thoughts and your heart. It knows also that you still have a purpose and that you are not yet ready to leave the mortal world. Another stone knew the same of_ Malak, _and allowed him to return._

_But, return to where?_

_To the land of the living. To reclaim his body and fight once more to protect his sister._

Like the sun breaking through a dense thunderhead, realization erupted in Izlude's misty mind.

 _Are...are you saying that the stone can send me back?_ He gasped out, nearly shocked into silence by this revelation. Is that really possible?

 _With you, it will be…_ his father answered. _I know you are overwhelmed, but don't ask how or why. Just be thankful you will have this second chance. There is still much good you can do in the world, not just for Alma…_

 _So, with our best wishes, we will use its power to send you back_ , his mother said gently. _Go back to her, she needs you…_

Perhaps it was the strange way this other-realm seemed to warp his sense of time, but Izlude felt as though he contemplated the idea for days. How long on his seemingly centuries of descending to this place had he pined for Alma? How many times had he wondered what his life, their lives, would be like if he'd had a second chance?

And now, that fondest and most forbidden wish had just been handed to him on a silver platter.

Yet, counterbalancing his joy was fear. What if this was some sort of trap set by the Lucavi? Might his father have been presented with some ruse, much like what he'd witnessed, to persuade him to embrace Hashmalum's vile influence?

He did not know. But, another look into his parents' eyes gave him his answer.

Izlude already knew, from experience, that Lucavi demons could not imitate love.

 _I understand… thank you…mother…father_ , he whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion. _I will always be grateful to both of you._

_You're welcome, son. Please treasure this gift and remember always: we love you…_

Before Izlude could reply, a strange light flared to life from each of his ethereal parents. It grew brighter and brighter until something akin to pain burned through him. And, it burned hotter and hotter with each passing moment until, at its crescendo, it subsided to a multitude of dull aches, most of which lingering about his torso.

Instincts held over from his more corporeal days sent his strangely heavy hands to caress the wound...until his probing fingers suddenly found a surface they could not pass through. This only partially registered in Izlude's still disoriented mind as he vaulted to his feet, barely aware of the action. The overwhelming light then began to dim, revealing that he was back in the meeting room of Castle Riovanes. Izlude was still blinking away stars as he realized that his once ghostly form was now solid, his absently probing fingers pressing into the hard surface of his torso and aching from the resistance. He stared down at his hands, the sight of them telling him that his blindness had also been undone...

...or, had the whole episode been some sort of near-death experience?

Indeed, it seemed too fantastical to believe...until he saw what he'd emerged from.

Beneath him was a veritable sea of blood, broken only by the partial outline of a body. A cursory glance over his shoulder revealed that his body had been the one which had lain amidst the sticky crimson.

With trepidation, Izlude pulled off his tabard and unbuckled his chest plate. What he'd believed to be his death wound was gone, but there were scars where they had been, all resembling the claw marks of an impossibly large jungle cat...

...or a leonine demon.

"I should have died," he whispered to no one in particular.

Then, a bluish light intruded upon his newly regained vision and he whirled to see a small, oblong stone with the symbol of Pisces carved into it. Izlude's breath caught in his throat as he recognized the symbol; it was the same stone he'd given to Alma in his dying moments, hoping she could spirit it and herself to her brother.

Had this stone been the one which, according to his mother's spirit, had called him back?

For a long moment, his confused gaze darted between the stone, his scars, and the pool of blood before realization dawned.

"I _did_ die!" he blurted, stupefied.

His gaze alighted upon the stone, as though expecting it to perform another miracle at any moment. Yet, in continued to glow, and Izlude could not help the strange impression that it was waiting for something.

A vessel for its resident Lucavi demon, perhaps?

Taking it might mean following in his father's ill-fated footsteps, even if he did rescue Alma. Yet, at the same time, if Hashmalum and his fellow demons were still gathering the stones and appropriate hosts, what nightmares might be unleashed if he left the stone here for the demons to reclaim? Or, no less terrible, for a suitable host to unwittingly stumble upon it and unleash the darker side of its considerable power.

After all, the stone had brought him back from the dead! And, he had no way of knowing if it could work greater wonders than he'd yet seen...

...or greater terrors.

Yet, conversely, he could not leave it here.

If the stone he'd given to Alma was still here, that could only mean that the scene of her being abducted by Hashmalum was playing out even now, which meant Alma was still in danger. Why Hashmalum wanted her alive, and why he'd be taking her to Orbonne sometime in the near future, Izlude could not guess. But, it stood to reason that, like Alma, the stones were also part of Lucavi's devious machinations.

The stone had brought him back from death, but, if he left it here, might its next discoverer fall prey to demonic influence? Assuming, of course, Izlude himself didn't?

Yet, the specters of his parents had told him that the stones could be used for good, as evidenced by Malak's own resurrection.

Ramza's will had kept the stone from corrupting him, whereas Vormav had been consumed. Could Izlude also take the stone but keep his own will?

There's only one way to find out, he realized.

With a deep, in-drawn breath, he picked up the stone. When it did not react, either by causing his hands to become deep red claws or something equally horrifying, he let out a long sigh of relief and tucked it into his doublet.

It was no dream, then. That which man had pined for since he'd first faced death had been granted to him; he had died and been given back his life. His head was a whirl with a thousand thoughts, but, rather than revel in his resurrection, he knew that his new life came with a price to be paid. Or, rather, a promise to be kept.

He had much to answer for...but, now he could do so. Now, he could take those dreams he'd had as he descended and work them into reality.

Now, he could keep his promise.

"Alma, I will find you, Alma."


	2. The Ruse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone, we're back! Sorry for the delay, work has been hectic for us both but we finally managed to get the ball up and running again. Once again, I would like to thank my co-author and editor, Falchion1984 for inspiring me and making this sequel possible. Now, on with the show!

_I've got to get out of here_ , Izlude reminded himself, vainly willing his heaving lungs to silence.

His mind knew that, but it seemed the rest of him wasn't getting the message. Perhaps it was the shock of his father transforming into a demon before his eyes. Maybe it was the remembered pain of those leonine claws ripping into his chest. Very likely it was the horrors of the massacre which surrounded him on all sides, the sea of faces frozen in agony amidst so many shallow oceans of blood.

Or, maybe it was Izlude's having been brought back from the dead.

Whatever the cause, the knight blade's hands shook and his feet refused to guide him on any path that didn't weave every which-where.

At some point, Izlude's wandering steps must've brought him over a pool of blood, for he suddenly found himself falling over backwards. He landed hard, rattling his teeth and, he suspected, giving himself an impressive bruise. But, all that was promptly forgotten when his blurred vision suddenly cleared and revealed a protruding corner of an ill-fitting stone in the floor upon which was snagged a scrap of red fabric.

A piece of Alma's dress.

Such a small thing of no value and not likely to even attract notice from anyone but himself. And yet, the sight of it was enough to shake him from the terrible haze that had fallen over him.

He still felt the horror of what had happened and the confusion over how and why he'd been sent back from death. If anything, both burned hotter than before. But, they no longer had the power to cloud his mind. He brought up one fist, still trembling slightly, and clenched it until his gauntlet creaked in protest. After a moment, the trembling stopped and the painful tightness of his own grip was enough to reaffirm that he was really alive and not dreaming.

Having righted himself, Izlude took in his surroundings. He was still in the meeting room of Riovanes Castle, where he had made his ill-fated stand against Hashmalum. The room was every bit as spartan and featureless as the rest of the castle, save for the cooling corpses of Barrington's personal bodyguards. They, it seemed, had not been given the second chance he had.

Izlude forced himself not to think about whether any of them should've been resurrected in his place, for such would be a swift and sure road to madness. Turning his attention to the rest of the room, Izlude noted the blood pool which he'd emerged from. The pool of sticky crimson was mostly dry, and he was worried that the partial outline of where his body had laid amidst the sticky crimson might attract notice.

Though Izlude would have liked to have more time to take in the miracle that he had just witnessed, he knew that he could not linger. An outline of a body in a pool of blood, but with the body that made it nowhere in sight, might attract and arouse some suspicion...

...how much more might the body that made it, wandering about and seemingly unscathed after what should have been a death wound.

Well, it was a death wound, but who'd believe it?

Ramza might, if what the specter of his mother told him was true, but the knight blade's thoughts quickly gravitated towards others who might investigate this gruesome scene and take note of his absent corpse.

Izlude still had no idea just how much of the Church of Glabados had aligned with Hasmalum and how many, like himself, were merely dupes being strung along by the disguised Lucavi. But, he suspected it was a moot point in any case. Whether innocent or guilty, any priests or Templar who came to investigate and administer to the dead would not look kindly on one of their own skulking about with a supposed holy relic in hand.

Izlude also could not be certain if Hashmalum knew that the Pisces Stone was still here, or if the leonine demon had any further business in the tomb that was now Riovanes Castle. Either way, Izlude could not allow the demon who wore his father's shell to discover he yet lived.

And, as if that wasn't enough, there was also the prospect of other parties coming to investigate. With the War of the Lions having degenerated into a bloody stalemate, and with casualties on both sides mounting by the day, Larg and Goltana surely needed whatever allies they could muster. Either could seek to secure Barrington's allegiance by "rescuing" him in what looked like a time of crisis. And, on top of that, Izlude had yet to discover the fate of the Grand Duke himself. If Barrington escaped the massacre, he'd surely return with men-at-arms to reclaim his keep. Even if the Grand Duke was dead, that guaranteed nothing. As the lord of the province of Favoham, any lengthy silence from Barrington would surely raise questions amongst his subordinates in other part of his domain.

Any one of these parties could come to Riovanes, likely sooner rather than later, and seeing the charnel house the castle had become would raise a great many questions.

Izlude decided he'd rather not be here to answer them.

He also knew, however, that he needed to preserve the illusion that he was amongst Riovanes' dead. If Hashmalum had even the slightest clue that Izlude was back among the living, the demon would no doubt return or send his minions to finish off the young knight blade for good. Having already seen what a single Lucavi demon could do when it shed its illusion of humanity, Izlude shuddered at the notion of seeing a repeat performance. Either way, he now knew far too much about the Lucavi for the demons to let him live.

The art of ruse wasn't something Izlude was practiced in, but he suspected that, if he could create the appearance that he was dead, it would throw off pursuit, at least for the foreseeable future. All he needed was for the blood pool he'd just risen from to be occupied when he left.

The knight blade quickly looked over Barrington's bodyguards, but was forced to discard them as likely candidates. One was too tall, another too broad of shoulder, and the remaining pair did not share his chestnut locks. With trepidation, he quietly opened the door leading out and entered the corridor beyond. Across the threshold was a veritable tableau of carnage. Bodies lay scattered across the floor, most of which in two or three pieces, while crimson covered the walls in great pustules that wept rivulets like red tears. Forcing his gorge down, the knight blade continued his grim work. Several servitors and guards were amongst the dead while others, their features and garb clawed to ribbons, Izlude could only guess at. After studying several who were too round, too old, or too dismembered to even identify as human, one finally caught his gaze. Sprawled upon the floor was the corpse of one of the fallen knights, a patch of chestnut hair still clinging to what was left of his scalp. He appeared to be about Izlude's size and build. Turning it over, he was faced with two gaping sockets where the eyes should've been. The sight tore a gasp from his mouth, but he quickly gnashed his teeth together and, though his own eyes were misting, he forced himself to look.

The first thing he saw was that the face of the brutalized corpse had been crushed beyond recognition, his features indiscernible amidst a horrifying mass of contusions and gashes, through one or two of which Izlude could see the mass of splintered ivory that used to be the man's skull. The sight made him shudder, though the knight blade knew he now beheld his best chance for his ruse to work. Izlude was sure that, regardless of who arrived first to investigate the incident at Riovanes, the Knights Templar would inevitably become involved.

After all, he thought bitterly, it might raise some awkward questions if "father" didn't at least investigate his son's supposed death.

Given how that his seeming demise would heighten the profile of this tragedy, Izlude didn't see how Hashmalum could react any differently without causing people to ask questions the disguised Lucavi would want to avoid answering. Izlude also suspected that his sister, Meliadoul, would most likely be called upon to identify his corpse. Though he loathed the thought of having to deceive even her, it would still be necessary, at least for the time being. That was, if she was still innocent and ignorant, of the Lucavi's schemes...

 _No!_ Izlude inwardly bellowed. _There's no "if". She's not a party to this plot, she couldn't be!_

Granted, Izlude would've said the same thing about his father a week ago, but he nonetheless held fast to the belief that Meliadoul's soul was still her own. His father had changed after a journey abroad just after mother's death, but Meliadoul was ever the same. She was still the older sister who drilled him in swordsmanship, who'd be giving him bruises in their practice duels one minute and ruffling his hair the next. She still had that same coy smile and bell-clear laughter.

Meliadoul's soul was still her own. Izlude told himself that, perhaps a hundred times in just those few minutes, for even entertaining the alternative might crush him.

Meliadoul's soul was, _must_ , still be her own.

Until he could confirm that, however, he knew that she would be in danger if she had cause to believe Izlude was still alive.

Acting quickly, the knight blade removed his damaged golden armor as well as green tabard and exchanged them for the armor and cloak of the fallen knight. The garb, which had largely been spared from Hashmalum's leonine claws, was far simpler than the distinctive Templar armor which Izlude had just shed. That, he reflected, would help when he left the castle to begin his search for Alma.

Still, there was one final detail he needed to attend to if he was to disappear as planned. The corpse of the unknown knight may have been very similar to Izlude in appearance, and his crushed face would make it difficult to prove who he really was but there was something the young knight blade had that his unwitting decoy did not, that he knew would give him away if Meliadoul was to take notice. On the inside of his left wrist, Izlude had a small birthmark in the shape of a strawberry. If it was absent from his supposed corpse, his sister might very well see through the deception immediately.

And, if the demon that wore his father's shell could kill one of Vormav's children, Izlude didn't doubt for a minute that the leonine demon would kill the other.

His only recourse was to make sure she could not see that discrepancy.

Despite feeling nauseated at himself for what he must do, Izlude took up his sword and used the tip to tear through the skin of the corpse's left wrist, where his birthmark would be. As the metal clove deeper and ground against the bone beneath, Izlude could taste bile on his tongue. Forcing his convulsing stomach to be still, he uttered a choked prayer that the unknown knight would forgive him for desecrating his body. After the man's left wrist was well and truly savaged and he'd swapped his garb with the corpse's, Izlude searched around the dead man's neck. His probing fingers eventually discovered a chain, which he pulled off. Attached to the loop of metal was the tag which identified the man in life.

These chains and tags, sometimes referred to as 'dog tags', had been invented shortly after the end of the 50 Years War. Izlude had heard tale that, during the long conflict with Ordalia, it was terribly commonplace for fallen soldiers to be have been so savaged by blade, spell, or disease that identifying their remains was all but impossible. During those terrible years many a wife of husband, daughter or son, mother or father, had been left wondering, many to this very day, what had befallen their loved ones who had departed for the battlefield never to return. Count Orlandu, who'd been frustrated that there was no means of identifying fallen soldiers in such circumstances, decided to invent a solution. Thus, he'd commissioned these dog tags be produced for all of Ivalice's men and women-at-arms, so that the remains of the fallen could be identified and returned to their families. Looking the tag over, Izlude saw that the other knight's name was Sir Damien Mitchell, a knight of Favoham's Order of the Wyverns.

If nothing else, Izlude now had a name for the prayers he'd make for this man's soul...or, maybe he had more than that?

At first, Izlude had intended to swap dog tags with this man simply to make his 'death' more convincing. But, upon reflection, he found an idea teasing at the back of his mind. Though he was by no means versed in spy craft, he suspected that, in addition to a disguise, he would also have to take on a new identity in order that he might search for Alma without attracting unwanted attention. A quick glance at the reverse side of Sir Damien's dog tag revealed that he was from the city of Yardow. However, the line which should have contained the name of his next of kin was blank.

An oversight on the part of whoever made the tag, or an opportunity?

 

 

Izlude quickly checked the dog tags of several other knights, looking to see if theirs listed next of kin, but forcing himself not to look to closely at the names of those who'd soon be burying the poor souls. Sure enough, Damien's was the only one with such an omission, which likely meant he had no close family.

Ignorant of spy craft he might be, but even Izlude could recognize the opportunity this presented. He would have to leave the name of Izlude Tingel behind him, as that name was far too dangerous to use so long as the Lucavi roamed the earth. Here, however, was a man with no immediate family and whose friends were likely amongst the dead.

Remembering his earlier musings on marrying Alma and raising a family, and his hopes of seeing Meliadoul again, the knight blade could not help a ripple of grief at the notion that this man he beheld would likely have no one to mourn him. Yet, Izlude's practical side told him that he'd never find a more perfect decoy; one who was a near perfect match to his size and appearance, and who had no family to unmask him.

And, in any case, the dead knight certainly had no use for his name now. So, with his heart seeming to grow heavier with each passing moment, Izlude slipped on Sir Damien's dog tag and tucked it under his jerkin. He then slipped his own dog tag around the other knight's neck.

One more thing to answer for, he reflected somberly, quickly turning his dog tag over to see Meliadoul's name on the reverse side. _Meliadoul, I will make this up to you. I don't know when or how, but I will!_

After making sure that he had rid himself of everything that could identify him as the true Izlude Tingel, the knight blade quickly dragged the corpse into the meeting room and carefully placed it against the wall. After a few minutes work, he'd managed to arrange the stiffening limbs to match his own slumped posture just before the holy stone had breathed life back into him. As he rose, he used two fingers to brush shut the man's eyelids and repeated his earlier prayers for his soul.

No sooner had Izlude finished then he heard the sound of footsteps approaching. He felt his blood run cold, fearing that it could be Hashmalum returning for the missing holy stone. Izlude knew he would stand little chance against the monster alone and, deciding that the wiser course would be not to get into another confrontation with the creature if he could help it, the young knight blade ducked behind a pair of heavy drapes. For what felt like hours, he waited, terrified that the sound of his heaving lungs and the funk of his cold sweat would betray him. However, when he dared a peek through the slight opening between the drapes, Izlude saw, much to his surprise, that it was not the leonine demon who entered the room. Instead, it was a young man, very near his own age, with the same honey blonde hair and sky blue eyes as that of his love, Alma Beoulve. Upon seeing what could only be a strong family resemblance, Izlude felt his lower jaw drop. Amidst the mingled wonder of his resurrection and the horror into which his revivification had deposited him, he'd completely forgotten about yet another party who was certain to come knocking on Riovanes' bloodstained gates.

Alma's brother, Ramza Beoulve.

The knight blade recalled how he had clashed swords with the supposed heretic in the depths of Orbonne Monastery just two weeks before. As had been the case when he'd beheld the young Beoulve in the strange vision shown to him by his spectral parents, Izlude was struck by the study in contrasts that was Ramza.

His short-cropped, unruly hair, which would have given the impression of a boy on the threshold of manhood if not for the blood gumming the locks together.

His youthful face, which yet retained a hint of baby fat but nonetheless seemed to hold in great bereavement the way a sluice held in water.

His blue eyes, large enough to be mistaken for the puppy-dog eyes children would use to coax favors out of their elders, except that these eyes seemed far older than the rest of his face.

The habitual poise and stature of a noble upbringing, a heritage which he'd rejected long before.

The robust, but shabby looking armor he wore, the menacing spikes of his shoulder pauldrons utterly mismatched with the expression of grief that marred his youthful features.

Izlude had long known that Ramza was a most unusual enemy, but even he had apparently fallen short of the truth.

Before Izlude could plumb further into the strange depths of the man hunted by church and state alike, he realized that Ramza was not alone. At his side was a young female knight whose armor was adorned with the insignia of the Lionsguard. Izlude also saw that her long reddish blonde hair was coiled into the functional braid of a warrioress, and that her blue-green eyes scanned the room with, judging by the way her breathing subtly sped up, the horror of what she saw wrestling with her efforts to spy for lingering dangers lurking amidst the carnage. The knight blade recognized her as well; Dame Agrias Oaks, a renegade holy knight and the former bodyguard to Princess Ovelia.

 _Actually, I suppose I should drop the "renegade" part_ , Izlude said to himself. After all, the people behind that moniker may very well have been behind this massacre.

Perhaps Agrias too was mulling over the likely culprits of what she witnessed, for she let out an epithet that would've made a Warjilis dockhand blush and then drove her palm into the wall in helpless fury. That, Izlude had to admit, surprised him. He had not known Agrias personally before she broke ranks with the church to follow Ramza and, in light of recent events, any "official" sources about her were now highly suspect. Still, he had heard that she'd had a reputation of stern unflappability.

Well, that was the polite description. Others had likened her to an animated marble statue.

Beautiful, immaculately carved, and colder than the frigid waters of Finnath Creek.

Yet, here she was, moved by the deaths of strangers.

There were other changes too, ones that Izlude could not make sense of and yet which he studied with a strange fascination. The fire in Agrias' eyes was still there, enough so that Izlude involuntarily shuddered when those blue-green orbs turned towards his hiding place, but something had tempered it.

Something that allowed her to grieve for this senseless slaughter, and to mark the culprits as dead men walking.

Other changes were evident as well. Izlude recalled that her hair had not looked nearly so lush nor so deep of color when he'd spied her by chance in the royal capital of Lesalia nearly a year ago, nor had that reddish glow stained her cheeks back then.

And, there was another alteration that he spied. Yet, it was one so ridiculous and so incongruous that, no sooner had the thought been completed, that Izlude was fighting down the urge to kick himself.

Was it his imagination, or had Agrias put on weight?

He'd nearly dismissed that as some trick of his eyes, but then he saw Agrias surreptitiously loosen the straps of her armor, a quiet sigh of relief parting her lips just afterwards. Before her lips had even pressed back together, the holy knight was in motion, searching the bodies strewn about the room for any sign of life. When she drew closer to Izlude's hiding place, he could see that, indeed, her stomach was softer than he remembered. What's more, her hips were wider and the plate molding that covered her breasts had also been adjusted to a less-than-pinching tightness.

Softer about the middle, Agrias might have been. But, she certainly hadn't gone soft. There was no mistaking the alert gaze of her eyes as they probed the room's windows and the shadows of its furniture and scant adornments for foes that might be lying in wait. She still moved with the grounded grace of a natural fighter, one hand palming the hilt of her sword as if ready to draw it at a moment's notice.

Whatever changes the holy knight had undergone since breaking ranks with the church, Izlude's instincts told him that she was every bit as deadly as she was before...

...maybe even more so.

The knight blade's jaw worked of its own accord, mouthing half-formed questions about the endless string of oddities he'd witnessed since his father's fateful summons. When the door to the meeting room suddenly banged open, he only barely managed to keep one such exclamation from migrating from his mind to his tongue.

Drawing in shallow breaths through his nostrils, he carefully peered out to spy two more figures at the door. Perhaps Izlude should not have been surprised to see Malak and Rafa, but he was nonetheless.

Surprised, and relieved.

He still remembered how his mother had implied that Malak too, had died, and been brought back by the power of a holy stone, but Izlude cared little for how his friend had survived.

It gladdened his heavy heart to see that at least one of his friends had escaped the massacre.

The sky seer brought up one hand to her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut, as though she could will away the sight before her. The nether seer, by contrast, merely let out a sad sigh and began to examine the bodies for any signs of life.

When his inspection had brought him to a body within arm's length of Izlude's hiding place, the knight blade caught sight of something that punched a gasp from his throat.

In an instant, four pairs of eyes snapped in his direction.

Izlude could swear that he felt the blood drain out of his face. What if they discovered him? He had to admit, his blunder had just made that quite possible. With his heart thumping in his chest, he frantically tried to weigh the possibilities.

Ramza might appreciate an eye-witness to the carnage which had unfolded in the duke's meeting room, and might even welcome another blade to aid his cause.

Of course, considering it was Izlude's fault that Alma had gotten into the nightmare of Riovanes, the young Beoulve was far more likely to gut the knight blade on the spot...

...especially if Izlude let slip just what else he'd gotten Alma into.

Izlude's inward debate, however, was abruptly halted when another sound rang out somewhere to Izlude's left. The eyes of those in the room who yet lived, including Izlude's, darted in the direction of the sound to see the body of a Riovanes Knight.

The body was moving!

Ramza and his companions seemed to teleport across the room, crowding around the gasping knight and all four asking a tangle of questions, Agrias's punctuated by incantations of healing magic. Izlude couldn't tell what they were saying, but the knight's reply rang all too clearly in his ears.

"Demon!" the knight rasped, seemingly unaware of his small audience. "Monster! Claws! Those horrible, glowing eyes!"

He let out a shriek of terror that quickly faded to an empty sigh as he breathed his last and then went limp.

Ramza and his companions composed the body as best they could and grimly resumed their search for other survivors while Izlude, though shocked to his foundation by the macabre act of providence that had prevented his detection, recalled what had nearly given him away.

When Malak had drawn near the knight blade's hiding place, Izlude had spied a small hole which had been punched into the nether seer's jerkin, wreathed by a corona of scorch.

A bullet hole, directly over his heart.

And, beneath that, was a scar that looked to be of the sort that would confirm Izlude's guess.

When Malak turned his back to the concealed knight blade to examine another body, Izlude saw a second, larger hole. Within, he spied a scar from what users of the strange weapons called guns would call an exit wound.

The evidence was clear and, even though Izlude had half-expected it, that did nothing to diminish the wonderment it caused in him.

Malak had taken a bullet through the heart and survived...

...or, more likely, he had died and had risen again with the aid of a holy stone.

Whatever the case, it looked like the group's search of this room had ended, for they reconvened near the door.

"I have not seen such slaughter," Rafa murmured, a haunted look in her hazel eyes. "There are corpses at every turn."

Izlude could hear the quaver in the heaven knight's voice, and shared it. In fact, even though the remainder of the company were surely used to seeing bloodshed on the battlefield, it was clear that this was like nothing they had ever seen before.

"My God…," The holy knight gasped. "What on earth could have possibly done this? Could Velias have somehow killed all of these people before we destroyed him?"

Izlude's eyebrows shot up clear into his hairline at these words. If Agrias considered it plausible that this "Velias" could have been the author of this atrocity, then that carried the implication that Velias was another Lucavi demon, like Hashmalum.

Ramza and his band had taken on a Lucavi demon, and won?!

"I don't know, Agrias" Ramza answered, shaking Izlude back to attention. "We're missing a lot of pieces to this puzzle. It seems as though the Lucavi demons we've fought so far only shed their human guises when they didn't have a choice. Cardinal Draclau turned into Queklain when we corned him at Lionel after learning that he had betrayed us. And, Weigraf became Velius when I'd bested his human self back in the keep. But, what would've made the demon shed his disguise here? And, for that matter, if these demons can kill an entire army, then why aren't they using this power outright? It just doesn't make sense."

Izlude had to admit, he shared Ramza's confusion. In fact, when the young Beoulve's words registered, Izlude had to choke down another incriminating gasp. Cardinal Draclau had also been a demon? It did cast Ramza's alleged killing of the cardinal of Lionel - no longer alleged, Izlude supposed - in a very different light.

It also explained why his funeral, which should have been a service attended by thousands, had not been open to the public. And, why only Vormav's closest subordinates had been allowed access to the scene of the crime.

No less startling was the realization that Weigraf had also been corrupted by the Lucavi.

The former leader of the Corpse Brigade, a recent but exceptional addition to the Knights Templar, had briefly been something of a kindred spirit to Izlude. Both had believed that the yoke of the nobility was the true cause of the misery and decline that so characterized Ivalice, and Weigraf was quite eager to succeed with the Templar where he and his former comrades had failed.

Izlude had thought that Weigraf's dream had died at Orbonne, when he'd been forced to abandon the mortally wounded former leader of the Corpse Brigade after he had been bested by Ramza. Yet, to the knight blade's amazement, Weigraf had been hale and whole when he'd arrived at Riovanes shortly before the massacre.

Given Izlude and Malak's resurrections, and Weigraf's apparent descent into demonhood, it was not difficult to guess how that had happened.

"Your sister," Malak spoke up, drawing all eyes in his direction. "She wasn't amongst the dead, was she?"

Ramza did not answer immediately. The young Beoulve nobleman turned rogue knight and then accused heretic scanned the room one last time to see if there was a corpse of a young blonde woman amongst the others in the room. When he saw none, he let out a sigh of relief.

"No, she's not here," he replied. "And, as far as I can tell, this is the only section of the castle that hasn't been searched by us or the others."

"They had her in the castle, I'm certain of that much," Malak affirmed. "They must have taken her during the fighting."

"Who's "they"?"

"Three men, from the Knights Templar. One, Izlude, was here for several days. Another, Weigraf, you've already slain. The third was Vormav, the commander of the Templar."

"One of the remaining two must have Alma, but why would they take her alive?"

The nether seer could offer only a helpless shrug in reply. Ramza, his weary gaze turning earthwards, let out a long, anguished sigh.

"Another dead end, then," he snarled. "We don't know where Alma has been taken, or even if she survived this."

"We've no reason to think otherwise," Agrias interjected. "We've already searched most of the castle before coming here, and so far none of us could find a corpse even remotely resembling that of your sister so please do not give up hope. There's too much at stake for us to give up now."

Those strange, incongruous thoughts of Izlude's seemed to stir at these words and, for some reason, the knight blade was inexplicably certain that Agrias wasn't just referring to Alma. Almost as if to reaffirm this point, the holy knight laid a gloved hand on the young Beoulve's shoulder and gave it a comradely squeeze.

Ramza drew in a breath and let it fountain out, almost as though he were trying to purge some poisonous abscess that crested deep within himself. And, perhaps that was so, for Ramza rose and, when he spoke, his voice was calm and his eyes were clear.

"I suppose you're right, Agrias," he admitted, clapping a hand on her shoulder. "Alright then, here's what we know. Vormav likely has Alma and, since she was taken alive from Orbonne and her body isn't here, it stands to reason that she's still alive. How long she will be, and where she is now, we don't know."

"Murond is the most likely place they would hold her," Malak spoke up. "That is the seat of the church's power, and the Templar are acting on the High Confessor's orders."

"Murond is well defended, and we don't know how many there might be Lucavi demons lying in wait for us," Agrias pointed out, though not without reluctance. "We'd need more blades, and a plan to infiltrate the island undetected, if we're to snatch Alma out from under their noses."

"That's time we might not have," Ramza said, and Izlude could see the effort it took him to voice those words. "There is more going on here than we know. Think about it. Weigraf only discovered the power of the stones after he'd struck his bargain with Velias. So, why didn't he know beforehand? The High Confessor may be giving the orders and passing out what stones he has, but I don't think he truly knows their power."

"What do you mean?" Rafa asked.

"We've seen agents of the church who turned out to be Lucavi, and those who did not. But, all of them have spoken of remaking Ivalice. The stones are powerful symbols, ones the church could use to convince the people that the High Confessor's ambitions are the unfolding of heaven's will. And, from what we've heard of these past months of rebellion and unrest, it would likely work. But, I don't think even he is aware of the Lucavi. The High Confessor's scheme is to broaden the church's power, but I believe the Lucavi are using his ambition to achieve something else. Something...sinister."

That, Izlude suspected as he took in the small sampling of what the Lucavi were capable of, was something of an understatement. Still, he had to admit, what Ramza was saying did make some sense. For all his seeming piety - and, Izlude was forced to admit, he came to this realization only with the benefit of hindsight - the High Confessor was a most ambitious man. Yet, Izlude had stood before him several times over the years, and had not noticed any of the sudden shifts in personality that had been present when Vormav became a vessel of the Lucavi. If the High Confessor did know the true power of the stones, he'd likely want to tap it for his own use.

So, if Ramza's guess was correct, then had the stone of Hashmalum found its way into Vormav's hand by unhappy chance? Or, had another disguised denizen of hell induced the High Confessor to part with the stone when a suitable host had appeared? Izlude supposed it was a moot point in any case. Even if there were elements of the church that had escaped demonic corruption, revealing himself to them would be suicidal, and might endanger Meliadoul as well.

"Whatever that "something" is," Ramza continued, shaking Izlude from his reverie, "it seems they need Alma alive in order to carry it out. So long as that is so, she'll be safe until we can rescue her. So, for now, we need to leave. A lot of people will be wondering what's happened here, and we had best be gone before they arrive."

"Where do you suggest we go now?" Agrias asked curiously.

"To Zeltennia," her companion answered. "This war fits into the High Confessor's ambition, and possibly into the Lucavi's as well. Delita is in Zeltennia, and might be able to provide some insight. What's more, there is something I must ask him."

"And, that is?" Agrias asked, and Izlude could hear the edge in her voice at the mention of Delita's name.

"It's a bit complicated and I cannot explain right now," Ramza admitted, raising both hands in a placating gesture when he noticed Agrias's face hardening into a glare. "But, please, trust me on this, Agrias."

"I do trust you, Ramza. Delita, however, is another matter."

"I can't say I blame you, Agrias. I still don't understand why Delita is doing what he's doing...no, I can understand the why of it, but not the what. He blames nobles for Teta's death and wants revenge. But, how kidnapping Ovelia, thwarting the assassination attempt against her, and working his way into Goltana's inner circle helps him to achieve this end, I do not know."

"This Delita," Malak interjected, "I believe I've heard of him. He was a lieutenant in the Black Ram Knights, under Baron Gribbs. When the baron was slain in battle, and Delita delivered Princess Ovelia to Duke Goltana, he was promoted to commander of the Black Ram Knights. Since then, I've heard tell that he's risen higher and higher in Goltana's favor."

"I've also heard that he and the princess are rarely seen far from each other," Rafa added.

Agrias, clearly displeased by this, rounded on the sky seer, both fists raised and clenched. Rafa, visibly alarmed and bewildered by this reaction, drew back a pace until Ramza clapped a hand on Agrias's shoulder. The holy knight's anger seemed to vanish like a popped bubble, and Rafa seemed only too eager to accept when Agrias offered a muttered apology.

"I doubt any of this is coincidental," Ramza affirmed. "But, I don't know what he wants to achieve by it."

"We do know that he's involved with the church somehow," Agrias broke in. "Where else could he have been trained as a holy knight?"

"I agree, but I don't think he wants the High Confessor to succeed. In Warjilis, he spoke to me about a mighty current that had swept up the dukes, and my brothers. He said that he was swimming against it."

"I believe that last time Delita said something like that, you described it as "speaking in nothings"."

"And, maybe he was. But, if he had been truly in league with the church, why didn't he kill me then? He's had no shortage of opportunities, and he hardly lacks for motive."

Here, Agrias's expression softened. She moved in close to Ramza and, before the astonished eyes of the concealed Izlude, laid one gloved hand on the young Beoulve's cheek.

"Teta's death wasn't your fault," she said firmly.

"If I hadn't blindly assumed that Dycedarg would keep his promise not to endanger Teta, maybe I would've found a way to save her," Ramza contradicted. "But, that's all just a waste of breath. In any case, I believe Delita may have information that I can persuade him to share with us. As for the rest...well, I can't truly explain it. I just feel that he isn't involved with the church or the Lucavi. His ambitions are different."

"And, if those ambitions involve killing you?"

"Then, I'll fight back. As you said, there's too much at stake for us to fail."

The holy knight was silent for a stretching second until, at last, she gave a resigned sigh. "Very well, Ramza. I know you wouldn't be suggesting something this unless there was a good reason. But, if Delita does talk, let him know what will happen to him if any harm befalls Ovelia."

The young Beoulve gave a small smile in reply to his companion's words. Coming from a war weary young man, hunted by church and state alike, that small smile might as well have been a face-splitting grin. Between that, the air between the two of casual camaraderie mingled with sincere concern, and the surprisingly intimate gesture Agrias had used to dispel Ramza's self-recrimination, Izlude could not help but suspect that Agrias was more to Ramza than just a follower and subordinate.

Much more.

After having witnessed the exchange between the two, the young knight blade considered what he'd heard. He knew of Delita's joining the church's efforts to end the corrupt reign of the Ivalician monarchy, and had even mentioned this fact to Ramza during their confrontation in hopes that it would either persuade the young Beoulve to lay down his blade or that it would throw off the otherwise surprisingly powerful warrior.

On both counts, Izlude had been wrong.

Now, however, the knight blade found himself wondering at the history between the pair. He knew Delita had joined the church, in part, to avenge a personal tragedy. By the sound things, Ramza too had witnessed it...

...and, like Delita, he had been changed by what had happened.

That the church wanted Princess Ovelia to occupy the throne, if only as a figurehead, was no secret amongst the ranks of the church. Delita had, indeed, been chosen to thwart Ovelia's would-be assassins, as well as to impress upon her that being a puppet monarch was preferable to being a dead one. Izlude barely knew Delita personally, but he could see why the man had been chosen for this mission of subterfuge. The man was cunning and clever, especially if he could work his way into Goltana's inner circle with such speed and ease. And he was also the very picture of a Machiavellian; able to charm friend and foe alike into dancing in the palm of his hand.

Was that why Ramza was so convinced Delita was not a party to the church's plot, even though he had so little evidence?

Perhaps, and it might very well explain how Delita secured the position of both Goltana's confident and Ovelia's faithful shadow.

But, for all that, Izlude shared Ramza's conviction that Delita was not in league with the Lucavi. On those few times Izlude had spoken with Delita, he could see that the grief that drove him to the church's doorstep - caused by the death of this Teta, apparently - was both real and raw. And, if the Lucavi could not imitate love, how could they imitate grief or mourning?

Still, there were many unanswered questions about what was unfolding in Ivalice. Between the church, the Lucavi, Larg, Goltana, Ramza, and, quite possibly, Delita, there were now six players vying to decide the fate of this troubled realm. The battle lines were blurred, and unseen forces were pulling strings from the shadows. Now, however, the storm clouds that had long been billowing on the horizon were ready to unleash a storm without parallel.

The board was set, the pieces were moving, but Izlude had no way to glean just what the stakes were in this game of war.

And, he shuddered to contemplate what might happen if the wrong side prevailed.

All he really knew was that, at some point in the future, Hashmalum would bring Alma to Orbonne. That seemed to represent Izlude's best chance to rescue her. But, he had no idea when, precisely, that might happen. He might return to the lands near Orbonne and lay in wait for Hashmalum, but the leonine demon might very well take months to arrive. That Ramza and company would arrive almost immediately after the leonine demon rekindled the notion of Izlude revealing himself to the small group. And, if they had indeed gone up against at least two Lucavi demons and won, joining them would greatly improve what small hope he had of wresting Alma from Hashmalum's claws. But, at the last moment, he decided against it. By Ramza's own admission, the young Beoulve had no way of infiltrating Murond to rescue Alma. And, even if he did, Murond was only a best guess as to where Alma might be held. What if the Lucavi had secreted her somewhere else? Or, what if an opportunity to save her before she reached Orbonne arose, and Ramza was too entangled with his other troubles to act upon it?

And, there was also the distinct lingering possibility that, since it was Izlude's fault that Alma got mixed up in all this and carried off by Hashmalum for God knows what foul purpose, that her brother would not be thrilled to see him. In fact, it was likely that Ramza would probably run him through the gut before giving him a chance to explain.

And, if Ramza learned about the...finer details of Izlude's relationship with Alma, the knight blade might very well find himself being impaled somewhere a little lower than the gut. God knew the knight blade would do so were he in Ramza's position.

As such, Izlude thought it best to keep himself out of the young nobleman's sight. Eager to relieve muscles cramped from standing stock-still for so long, he silently prayed that the small group would depart soon. They were doing just that when something caught the holy knight's eye.

"Hey, Ramza…," Agrias called out.

"Yes?"

"Look at this body. The armor, and the tabard. Doesn't it look familiar?"

Izlude dared to peek out at the pair and saw that they had knelt before the body of Sir Damien Mitchell. Unconsciously, the knight blade drew in a breath and held it as he watched Ramza and Agrias examine the slumped body of the knight with whom he has exchanged garb moments earlier. The knight blade felt yet more cold sweat bespangle his brow as the young Beoulve studied the once magnificent golden armor of the Templar and the once forest green tabard. Then, with the suddenness of a thunderclap, Agrias snapped her fingers.

"Now I remember!" she exclaimed. "Isn't this Sir Izlude Tingel, whom we fought at Orbonne? The one who carried your sister off?"

Upon hearing the mention of his name, Izlude gnashed his teeth together to keep them from chattering. He watched, unblinkingly, as Ramza took the chin of the dead knight and lifted his head, turning it to one side and then the other. Izlude told himself over and over that there was no way Ramza would be able to see through his ruse. Aside from the fact that the other knight's face was savaged beyond recognition, Ramza had met Izlude only once, and very briefly. That, Izlude's mental refrain went, was certainly not long enough that he'd be able to notice any discrepancies between Izlude and the body of the knight which now lay before him.

Of course, as Izlude himself had concluded earlier, Ramza was a very clever and perceptive young man. Might that also extend to him having an impeccable memory and a peerless attention to detail?

The knight blade's ears had begun to tremble and his vision to swim until, once again, the fickle mistress of fate granted him another small favor.

Ramza pulled Izlude's dogtags out and examined them, then gave a sad nod. "I'm afraid so," he said, and Izlude was astonished by the genuine bereavement in the young Beoulve's voice. "It is truly tragic that he met his end this way. I did not sense any of the church's corruption in him, and he could have been spared this terrible fate if only I'd been able to get through to him."

"Don't, Ramza," Agrias warned. "That road only leads to madness. I should know, I've been down it before...well, you know."

Was it Izlude's imagination, or was there a hint of girlish shyness in Agrias's words? Before he could dissect this latest addition to a seemingly endless list of oddities, Ramza replied.

"Yeah, that was a surprise. Still, I suppose you're right. I can't blame him for not wanting to heed the words of a heretic and, you have to admit, the truth was much stranger than fiction. Still, now that he's gone, I'll never be able to ask him about Alma. I can't explain it, but I'm somehow certain that he was the last person to see her before she was taken away. Maybe he could've even told us where she'd been taken to."

"It's all right, Ramza, you are not to blame. It was Sir Izlude's own misfortune, and there is nothing we can do for him now...except make sure whoever, or whatever did this pays the price."

"I suppose you're right. And, we've tarried here much too long already. I hope whoever comes to investigate this massacre will give him and the rest of these poor souls a proper burial. Right now, we must leave this place. Get the others. Whoever does come probably won't be happy to see us."

"Agreed."

As Izlude watched the small group leave the room to meet with their other companions, he felt, in equal parts, profound relief that he hadn't been discovered and a sense of dread over Ramza's eerily accurate instincts. The young knight blade shook off both and, as he stretched life back into his limbs, considered his next course of action. He knew that Ramza would search for his sister to the ends of the earth, as well seek a way to end the War of the Lions before Ivalice fell into the corrupt hands of the High Confessor or the claws of the Lucavi. But, what of Izlude Tingel? Eager though he was to save Alma, he had so few leads and, alone, he might not live long enough to follow up on what little evidence he had. What's more, though Ramza had been forced to abandon his sister's trail for the moment, Izlude did know that he would eventually track Alma to Orbonne. Joining Ramza outright might be too dangerous, especially given his "death", but an alternative sprang to him. If Izlude could somehow follow the young Beoulve, then, sooner or later, he would lead him straight to Alma. As for the complications that could arise if Izlude was discovered, alive and trailing them, he would cross that bridge when he came to it.

He would die for Alma. Indeed, he already had. And, if it meant she'd be spared from the Lucavi's profane machinations, he would do so again.

After making sure the quartet was truly gone and that there was no sound of any other members of Ramza's band within earshot, Izlude decided that he'd best leave as well. Before he left the duke's meeting room, however, he paused next to the body of Sir Damien, his unwitting decoy. He thought back to the clear and terrible regret in Ramza's voice as he spoke of the schism between him and Delita, of Teta's death and, ironically, Izlude's.

Something similar now crested in Izlude's heavy heart.

"I was wrong, you know," he said to the corpse that would be buried in his place. "When I believed that there was no one who would mourn you. I will. And, God willing, I'll find a way to put this to rights."

He lay a palm on what was left of the man's forehead, affirming his promise, and then rose and headed out into the hallways of the castle. At each corner and doorway, he carefully peered ahead before proceeding, just in case the living had arrived to reclaim this terrible tomb. Seeing nothing stirring amidst the carnage, Izlude made his way down the hallways as quietly as his booted feet would allow. Then, just as the heaviness of his heart had lessened by the barest degree, he spotted the body of a familiar knight among the sea of countless other corpses left in the Lucavi demon's wake. As he drew closer, the knight blade recognized the other knight as Sir Justin Timbel, his loyal subordinate and dear friend who had died trying to fulfill his last order to protect Alma and help her escape.

"Oh, Justin…," Izlude whispered sadly, his eyes brimming with tears as he knelt before the lifeless body of his friend. Sir Justin, who hardly looked the part of a knight but who had the courage of a lion, had served and fought alongside him since he was inducted into the ranks of the Knights Templar. Where most had thought him only good for a laugh due to his speech impediment, Izlude had recognized the quality of the young man's sword arm and the far greater value of his bravery and loyalty.

And, a brave and loyal man he'd been, until the very end.

As he examined his friend's corpse, Izlude noticed that Justin's arms were neatly folded across his chest and the expression on his face was very nearly peaceful. This, he realized beyond any doubt, was Alma's doing. On the heels of that revelation came a wave of guilt that washed over the knight blade like the Lucavi's limitless hatred. Though Izlude was born and bred on the battlefield, and other knights had died under his command in past battles, Justin's death and Alma's kidnapping by Hashmalum could have been entirely prevented if Izlude himself had not kidnapped the Beoulve girl and brought her to Riovanes in the first place. But, as Ramza himself had said, such thoughts were a waste of breath. And, in any case, all Izlude could do now was say a silent prayer for his friend and hope that Justin would forgive him for unwittingly sending him to his untimely death. If he could, Izlude would have buried Justin with his own hands, but he knew he would not have nearly enough time. Many different parties would take an interest in what had happened in Riovanes, and they might arrive for a closer look any minute. So, like Alma before him, he was forced to assent to necessities' cruel wishes and leave his friend's corpse where it was. But, at least Izlude could soothe his guilty conscience with the knowledge that the church will give Justin a proper burial, as he was one of their knights.

Leaning over and kissing the deceased knight's cold forehead, he whispered "Rest in peace, my friend, you have done your duty well. I will always honor and never forget you, Justin…"

As Izlude finished his prayer, he caught sight of himself in the mirror smooth metal of his late friend's armor and perceived a serious flaw with his plan. His borrowed dog tags might be enough for any peasants and townsfolk he came across, and likely many of the soldiers he might run into as he skirted the battle lines of the War of the Lions. But, though he had shed his name, he could not shed his face. Anyone from the church or the Templar, or who had worked closely enough with them to know of him, would likely recognize him on sight. And rectifying that would be a difficult feat, considering that he was the son of the leader of the Knights Templar, as well as Vormav's - or, more accurately, Hashmalum's - second-in-command. As he probed his mind for ideas, Izlude's thoughts went back to the holy stone in his pocket. If it could bring him back from the dead, then could he also tap its power in other ways? He had no idea. Based on what he know of his own resurrection, as well as the bits and pieces he'd learned of Malak and Weigraf's revivals, the stone seemed to choose who it aided and how. If it did, indeed, "choose" to do what it did, and for whom, it stood to reason that it had some semblance of intelligence and will.

Perhaps even something resembling a heart.

But, this stone was hardly a wizard's staff. Suppose it also possessed a temper, which might be riled if it were used it like some common talisman?

Knowing that there was only one way to find out, the knight blade pulled out the purple Pieces Stone and turned it over in his trembling hands. Closing his eyes, Izlude tried to clear his mind, to concentrate on his need for a disguise and what disaster might befall him if he were recognized, in hopes that the stone would hear him and...

...well, do something.

What that "something" might be, Izlude had no idea. But, he held fast to his faith that, if the stone had thought him worth bringing back from the dead, then it would consent to aid him in seeing that its miraculous gesture would not go to waste. Suddenly, the knight blade felt the stone grow warm in his hand, the same warmth spreading outward to suffuse his whole body. Then, the warmth suddenly turned hotter, so hot that Izlude swore that his hair was crisping from the burn. Then, just as suddenly as the heat came, it was gone. After taking a moment to confirm that the stone hadn't immolated him for his insolence, he opened his eyes and took another look into Sir Justin's reflective armor.

Upon seeing his reflection, Izlude could not help but smile when he saw that the holy stone had indeed granted his wish. Though his face and body had been left largely unaltered, Izlude's tanned complexion was now as pale as Alma's. No less remarkable, his once short chestnut brown hair had lengthened and had darkened to a jet black. Lastly, his emerald-green eyes were now a cold steel-grey. He murmured his thanks to the stone and reverently (all things considered) slipped it back into his pocket. Now that he knew the stone could grant him its aid, at least when it chose to do so, the knight blade had faith that its power would will keep him from being recognized by anyone who might take issue with Izlude Tingel wandering about after his supposed "death". And, now that he, and the stone, had ensured that the illusion of his death was complete, Izlude could finally move on to the next phase of his plan.

Searching for Alma.


	3. The Shadow

For a long moment, Izlude lingered at the side of his fallen friend, his own grim silence matching that of the tomb that rose around him. He might have been studying his reflection in Justin's mirror smooth armor to make sure that the disguise granted him by the holy stone was complete, or maybe he'd been waiting for Ramza and his company to get further away so that they would not detect his pursuit. Or, quite possibly, he was reluctant to leave Justin without...

 _Without what?_ he found himself wondering.

Explaining why he had lived while Justin had died, or why he'd given the order that had proven Justin's death sentence? Asking his forgiveness for unwittingly placing Justin within reach of Hashmalum's claws? Thanking him for being loyal to the end? Izlude did not know.

What he did know was that his window of opportunity grew narrower with each passing moment and, loathe though he was to leave Justin's remains unburied, he had to leave with all speed. One day, he suspected, he would, indeed, meet Justin again to make an accounting of himself, and that his fallen friend would not be the only one to whom he would have to justify himself. But, he decided that he'd best serve the memory of the people who'd died here by making sure that that day was a long way off, and only came after Alma had been rescued. So resolved, he began to make his way down the castle hallways. Pausing for a moment, the knight blade swore, by the blood of those who'd died in this tragedy, himself included, and to whatever heavenly power there was to hear him, an oath more sacred than any he'd taken as a Knight Templar.

From this day forth, whatever task to which he turned his hand or whatever burden he shouldered, it would not be undertaken solely for himself and Alma alone, but also for Justin and the souls of his parents, to whom he owed his second chance at life.

And, though that was no small promise, he did not quail.

After all, if death hadn't stopped him, what could?

He promptly shook himself back to attention, somewhat embarrassed by his thoughts. As miraculous as the stone's resurrection of him was, he would rather not find out if it would perform the feat a second time.

If the stone did possess something akin to a mind - and it certainly seemed so, given that it chose who it aided and how - then allowing its efforts go to waste seemed most unwise.

 _Speaking of unwise..._ Izlude mused, quickening his pace.

The knight blade continued onward, through corridors and galleries that had once been bustling with activity. Now, there was only a funereal silence, so deep that even the squeaking of a rodent would have resounded like a thunderclap. He soon reached a stout portal that led down to the castle's main floor and, straining against the weight, forced open the heavy doors.

What he saw beyond nearly sent him jumping out of his altered skin.

He was standing atop a broad stairway in the castle keep, lined with immense braziers that, with no one to tend to them, were burning low. Yet, the encroaching shadows could not conceal the pervasive smell of sulfur that assailed his nostrils.

The stench emanated from an ominous looking pattern of scorch marks upon the floor. It looked like the outline of a body, but one unlike anything Izlude had seen even in his darkest nightmares. Alma had said that she'd seen the body of a Lucavi demon, slain by her brother. Perhaps the body had been here, but was disposed of while Izlude had been making his journey to or from the realm of the deceased.

Whatever it was, it had been huge and monstrous. Assuming it had been laid out at full length, it had been well over seven feet tall. What's more, it had had legs ending in hooves and four arms. The lower pair seemed normal, if overly large, while the upper pair looked as thick as tree trunks and, judging by scorched outlines of the hands, the creature could have crushed a man's head like an overripe grape.

That analogy harkened Izlude back to the crushed skull of Sir Damien, who must've met his demise at the hands of whatever creature had scarred this keep.

 _No, not_ scarred _,_ Izlude mused. Desecrated.

That did, indeed, seem the word for it. And, the analogy became all the more poignant when he spied Weigraf's dog tag upon the scorched tiles, right where the creature's neck would have been.

This seemed to confirm Izlude's guess, but the stench of evil on the air quickly choked away any pride he might have felt at in deductive skills. Weigraf's comrades from the Corpse Brigade had given their lives to free Ivalice from the corrupt nobility, but what worse insult to their memory was there besides their leader striking a bargain with slave masters more vile by far?

And, for that matter, how many other souls had been corrupted by the Lucavi?

Izlude shook off the question, deciding to focus on what he did know. And, he knew that, for all their power and monstrousness, these demons could be killed. Thus resolved, he skirted around the edge of the scorch marks and pressed on.

Izlude could not be sure if Ramza and company were still close enough that his pursuit would attract their notice, but he dared not tarry any longer. Surely by now, the eerie silence of Favoham's capital and its lord was attracting notice from the outside world, and Izlude knew he could not afford to run afoul of whomever came to investigate. Picking his way carefully through the mass of bodies and the rivers of blood, taking care not to knock aside any corpses or leave any leave any bloody footprints to mark his passage, he soon reached the main foyer. Under normal circumstances, that would have been the least likely way for a fugitive to make his escape, as the cavernous entrance to the castle proper was always well guarded.

These circumstances, however, were anything but normal.

Of the more than two dozen armed guards that would have held this room against a frontal assault upon the castle and who would have formed the first countercharge against armed intruders, none yet drew breath. And, these men had clearly met their deaths upon Hasmalum's claws rather than Ramza's blade.

Ramza may have killed when forced to do so, but these people had been simply murdered...and then butchered.

 _How did father endure it?_ Izlude found himself wondering as his eyes wandered from horror to horror. How could he watch such atrocities be committed by a demon that wears his own face? What keeps this from succumbing to madness?

Izlude did not know. And, in truth, he was hesitant to delve too deeply into that particular mystery. Still, he recalled the vision he had seen of Ramza and company pursuing Hashmalum into the depths beneath Orbonne, and the strange but unquestionable certainty he'd had that the renegade Beoulve and his band of fugitives would prevail. If that were so, then he hoped that would be enough to ease his father's dispossessed spirit.

Taking some solace in that belief, Izlude took a moment to survey what lay before him. As expected, Hashmalum had transformed the austere entryway into a nightmare of blood. Dry crimson puddles formed macabre carpets on the otherwise bare floor, dotted here and there with severed limbs and other grisly detritus that Izlude dared not inspect. Once more forcing himself not to think too closely about the dead surrounding him, for down that road lay madness, he carefully picked his way through the carnage and approached the main doors. The stout portal of Riovanes' keep, as solid as a mountain and as ugly as a Morbol, had been left unbarred and ajar.

Beyond was a blessedly ordinary day, the sound of birdsong hauntingly beautiful after the funereal silence of Riovanes.

The knight blade had been about to slip through the crack when he heard voices beyond. He quickly backed away and pressed himself up against the door frame. The sound of several chocobos, each letting out deep "wark", reached his ears and he feared that one of the animals might have alerted its rider to his presence. Not daring even to breathe, he remained stock still, silently praying that he hadn't been detected. When no one came in to seek out the source of an incriminating shadow, he sagged with relief and listened. Straining his ears, he was able to make out Ramza announcing to his party that they would be leaving for Zeltennia. The young Beoulve went on to say that they would take the most direct route they could, by crossing the border between Lesalia and Zeltennia. They would enter Zeltennia by going through Dugeura Pass and the Free City of Bervenia. After that, they would press on to the capital. There, he hoped to find Delita and some badly needed answers. That, he warned, meant another two weeks journey from Riovanes, and through two provinces where they were still fugitives from church and state alike.

Yet, not one voice was raised in objection.

In fact, Izlude was fairly certain he heard somebody opine that the proposed escapade "Could be fun".

Izlude had to admit, he was surprised by this silent and yet thunderous show of support. How many of them had known, truly known, what they were getting into when they threw in their lot with Ramza? For that matter, how many had been his comrades before the mark of heresy had been falsely stamped upon his name, and yet remained at his side after he'd been branded an outlaw? In either case, the fact that they had not deserted Ramza, nor tried to turn him in when they'd had the chance, spoke volumes.

Alma had believed that Ramza was a great man. And, if Izlude hadn't agreed before, he did now.

Surely, only a great man could elicit such loyalty in the face of such impossible odds.

Hoping he'd get the chance to relay this opinion to Ramza personally, Izlude waited for the group to mount their chocobos and leave, using the intervening minutes to mull over what he'd heard. Now that he knew exactly where Ramza would be heading, as well as their route, he considered finding some means to bypass them undetected and trying to reach Zeltennia ahead of the Beoulve noble and his party. It would be simple enough for he, a lone rider, to outdistance a party of, he suspected, over a dozen warriors. However, he was forced to discard that notion almost immediately. As his being stalked by Lucavi demons made clear, unexpected things tended to happen when Ramza Beoulve was involved. Ramza might encounter something or someone that forced him to change his plans, his journey could be delayed by a chance encounter with the enemy or by injury or illness amongst his troops, or he might be caught up in other unforeseen circumstances that were well beyond his control. Besides, even if Izlude did reach Zeltennia before Ramza, what good would it do him? He doubted there was anyone in Zeltennia he could trust with either his identity or his knowledge of Lucavi demons walking the earth. And, even if he did somehow find Delita and could convince him that he was Izlude despite his altered appearance, he rather doubted that Ramza's former friend would be particularly forthcoming. So, the knight blade decided that the best course of action would be for him to follow his original plan and stealthily trail the Beoulve.

Once he judged Ramza's group as being far enough that none of them would glance over their shoulder and spot him, the knight blade entered the courtyard. Perhaps the carnage outside the castle had been less than it was within, or maybe he was simply grateful to escape the pervasive tang of innocent blood. Either way, the knight blade was breathing easier once he tasted the open air. Surveying the area, he saw that this part of the castle had had at least some warning of Hashmalum's rampage...

...not that it had helped.

As per Barrington's austere sensibilities, the "courtyard" had more the look of a parade ground and training area for Riovanes' troops. In the place of many colored flowerbeds, formal hedges and bushes, and aviaries filled with exotic birds, there were instead cobblestone paths and roped off sections of bare dirt. Both were festooned with ramshackle barricades used for training soldiers to vault over obstacles and hastily placed wooden stakes with sharpened tips, all of which had been directed towards the castle doors.

Those that hadn't been smashed to splinters looked to have been simply plucked from the ground and tossed aside like so much litter.

There were also several hitching posts from which dangled lengths of torn leather. Apparently, many of the castle's chocobos had been moved near the outer gate and tethered, presumably so that knights could mount them and make a sally against whatever came through the castle doors. Several others had been placed closer to the outer gate, likely so that, if worse came to worse, dispatch riders could be sent off with calls for help. Judging by the lack of chocobos and the abundance of bird tracks heading towards the outer gate, these chocobos had broken their tethers and fled when they'd sensed just how overwhelming a threat they'd otherwise be facing.

The knight blade had never been one to condone cowardice, but, having become intimately familiar with Hashmalum's handiwork, he supposed he could make an exception.

It did complicate his plans, however. Since Ramza's party had at least several chocobos, Izlude knew his chances of trailing them on foot were slim. Even if Ramza had two or three riders wedged on each one, with others carrying their stored weapons and armor, chocobos possessed incredible stamina and could cover a great distance at speed.

If Ramza's eagerness to discover clues about his sister's fate and the church's plot drove him to force one or two marches through the night, Izlude would have a better chance of catching up to the setting sun.

And, as if that weren't enough, he suspected that the chocobos which had fled earlier were much too far away for him to capture and put to use.

His despair was forgotten, however, when he heard a plaintive "wark".

The knight blade's gaze snapped in the direction of the sound, his heart leaping in his chest. He followed the sound towards the right side of the castle and, as he approached, he heard several warks ringing out in answer to the first.

Then, with the realization echoing in his head like a thunderclap, he remembered what lay in this direction; the castle's stables. Izlude could not help but smile bitterly as he also realized how ironic it was that the Lucavi demons slaughtered nearly every human being at Riovanes (including himself) yet spared the animals living on the estate, even the chocobos in the stables, for not one of them bore a single scratch.

Upon returning to Riovanes with his then-captive, Alma, in tow, he had left his own mount in one of the stalls.

"Nelly, is that you?" he called out, smiling as the warks grew excited.

The knight blade broke into a run, a grin dawning out on his face for the first time in his second life. Reaching the stables, he skidded to a halt before a stall occupied by a gold chocobo that was in nigh ecstasy at the sound of her master's voice.

When she saw him, however, her warks took on a note of perplexity and she backed away warily.

"Nelly, what's wrong with you? I-" Izlude began, trailing off when he caught sight of the hand he'd stretched out to calm his mount.

A hand with skin as pale as milk and unblemished by calluses.

"Oh, sorry about that, girl," Izlude said sheepishly. "I know I look...different. But, it's really me. See? I still sound the same."

Nelly cocked her head to one side and let out another confused wark. She didn't seem ready to break out of the stall and make a run for it, for Izlude knew these stables were too flimsy to hold her. That suggested she'd realized that, as he'd pointed out, he still sounded like her master. However, she was clearly skittish of this peculiarity and, if he tried to enter the stall and saddle her, she'd likely panic and trample him.

Puzzled, the knight blade mulled over what he could do to convince Nelly that he was the same master who'd ridden her in the past. Then, having an inspiration, he thrust one hand into the cell, palm up. Chocobos had a keen sense of smell and, hopefully, the holy stone had not chosen to alter his scent. Nelly reluctantly approached and, after a few whiffs, let out a wark of unmitigated happiness.

"That's a good girl!" Izlude cheered, unlatching the stall door and letting Nelly out.

Nelly gave him an affectionate peck on the head once she was out the door, and Izlude promptly found his mind wandering back to years gone by. Nelly had been a gift from Meliadoul when he'd been inducted into the ranks of the Knights Templar. In fact, since the two were so alike in personality, he'd almost named the chocobo "Melly", after a nickname he'd called his sister by when he was a child.

Meliadoul, true to her nature, had reacted to the idea by giving him an affectionate headlock.

Nelly, as though sensing his train of thought, decided to fill in for his absent sibling by using one wing to drag him in close and pecking a mite more firmly.

"Okay, okay!" Izlude spluttered, futilely trying to bat away the offending beak. "I'm glad you're happy to see me, but I need your help. We've got a long way to go and things to do. And, we don't have much time."

It was often said that a chocobo could sense their rider's mood just as surely as a human's siblings or parents could, and Nelly validated such beliefs by ceasing her shenanigans. Izlude quickly retrieved his saddle and bridle from the stall and strapped both to his mount. He then led her to the castle's granary and armory, where he loaded the saddlebags with provisions and camping gear, as well as appropriated a suit of armor, a helm, a sword, and a shield. Keeping to his earlier plan to avoid attracting notice from prying eyes, he chose the single most nondescript pieces he could find and, the habits of a religious life taking over, left behind their approximate value in gil.

After taking a dead man's identity, he didn't want any other thefts on his already burdened conscience.

He'd been about to depart the castle when he belatedly realized that Nelly was not the only chocobo left in the stables. Several others were poking their feathered heads out of their stalls, warking plaintively as though wondering where their human friends were.

Izlude, however, already suspected the answer to that question.

With the remaining chocobos locked in their stalls and no one to feed them, they'd likely starve before anyone came to Riovanes to investigate. The knight blade's more rational side told him that it would have to be so. He couldn't take the small herd with him when he left, not even if he planned to simply offload them at the nearest town to be resold. Yet another part of him, the part that Alma had touched in him during their time together, urged him to save what lives he could while he had the chance. Deciding to heed the latter voice, Izlude threw open the stalls and released the remaining birds. He could only hope that they would be found and cared for.

Indeed, that was all he could give them under the circumstances; a chance to put this nightmare behind them and, hopefully, find another home.

Alma, he suspected, would have approved.

Izlude guided his bird back to the outer gate and climbed into the saddle. With a flick of the reins, Nelly was in motion. Wings spread, she charged forward as though spoiling for a race. The sudden burst of speed nearly sent Izlude toppling, but he managed to right himself and held onto the reins for dear life.

"Let me take a wild guess," he shouted over the wind howling in his ears. "Somebody didn't listen when I said not to sneak you any more sugar cubes?"

Nelly's only answer was another "wark", but one with a decidedly affirmative tone. The knight blade rolled his eyes, even as the pace caused them to tear up. He supposed he should've expected that. One of the reasons he'd almost given Nelly his older sister's nickname was that, like Meliadoul, she had an uncanny knack for coaxing gifts out of strangers, particularly those she wasn't supposed to have...

...such as those sugar cubes the stable master always took with his tea.

The stable master had been an affable old coot with quite the sweet tooth. He'd always taken a dozen or so sugar cubes with his tea and, with one glance of her big eyes, Nelly could convince him to part with a few. And, despite the knight blade's chiding, the stable master simply could not bring himself to refuse her.

Izlude supposed it was all an exercise in futility anyway. When Nelly wanted a sugar cube, which was often, she could always coax somebody into giving her one...

...and, after that, she'd make Izlude feel like he was riding a bolt of lightning.

"Just how many did he give you anyway?!" the knight blade shouted when he noticed just how rapidly Riovanes was vanishing behind them.

Nelly's only response was a series of warks, so rapid that they all seemed to blend together, which reminded Izlude rather uncomfortably of when he and Meliadoul had mistaken their father's supply of sweetened coffee for hot chocolate, depleted it, and then were ricocheting around the yard for days on end afterwards.

Not only would Nelly not be stopping anytime soon, but the knight blade was suddenly worried about overshooting his quarry.

Shaking his head in frustration, Izlude turned his attention to Ramza's trail. The knight blade knew some of the rudiments of tracking, and it was enough to tell him that the young Beoulve was cunning. By the look of it, he and his friends were riding single-file, with each chocobo trampling the preceding bird's tracks. If someone stumbled upon their trail, they would find it nearly impossible to determine the band's numbers or their destination.

Izlude might have as well, had he not had the ironic fortune of twice being trapped within earshot of his quarry when Ramza and his friends were discussing their plans. This realization filled his heart with fire, which was almost enough to counterbalance the saddle sores accumulating on his hind quarters. He rode onward, giving Nelly her head, through the Yuguo Woods and up Grog Hill. Then, just as he was descending the hill and the sun was nearly gone from the sky, he finally spotted his quarry. Ramza and his band had set camp in a grove of alders near the base of the hill. Letting out a sigh of relief, Izlude gave Nelly's bill an affectionate rub and tried to extricate himself from the saddle.

"Tried to", because his saddle sore ridden lower half promptly folded beneath him and sent him sprawling.

Nelly let out a series of warks that sounded suspiciously like girlish laughter, but Izlude was too busy rubbing life back into his legs to offer complaint.

Locating a cluster of boulders that would hide him from view, Izlude made his camp there. Wary of attracting the group's attention, he shed his armor as quietly as he could and elected not to build a fire. He had planned to sleep almost immediately, but, despite the long journey from Riovanes, not to mention from the realm of the dead, rest proved strangely elusive. Letting out an aggravated sigh, he chose to while away the time by observing Ramza and company, more than a little curious about this band that had slain at least two Lucavi demons and stymied pursuit by church and state alike. Apart from Ramza Beoulve, Agrias Oaks, and the Galthana twins, he also spied several others. He quickly recognized Mustadio Bunansa, both from the vision and the Templar's dossier on the supposed band of heretics. He also spied Lavian Murry and her identical twin sister, Alicia, who'd been Agrias's subordinates before her departure from the Lionsguard.

At least, they'd been knights according to the dossier.

By the look of things, Alicia had elected the path of the monk while Lavian had donned the robe and horned circlet of the summoner. He also spied Rad Phillips, once a mercenary squire who'd fought alongside Ramza when he'd first turned away from his brothers. Now, however, Rad was not a squire but a dark knight, clad in ebony armor and wielding a sword seemingly forged of magma. The knight blade also spotted the six former Hokuten cadets who'd deserted along with Ramza. There were three men; a dragoon, and thief, and a black mage, and three women; a samurai, a ninja, and a white mage. Remembering that Meliadoul was at Ramza's side during the vision, Izlude scanned the campsite for any sign of his older sister. It was a vain hope, to expect that prophecy to be fulfilled so soon, but he nonetheless felt a pang of disappointment when she did not appear.

Still, he recalled the vision and held onto the hope that Meliadoul would, indeed, survive the true conflict of the War of the Lions

Activity in the camp seemed to be winding down, with several members of Ramza's band heading towards their tents. Izlude watched with an upraised eyebrow as Rad waved Lavian and Alicia into his tent, mentioning something about "late night entertainment". Meanwhile, Ramza, despite sending a gently disapproving glance in Rad's direction, put an arm around Agrias and guided her into his tent.

The knight blade, who'd already suspected that the young Beoulve saw the holy knight as more than a subordinate, could not keep a punchy grin from his face as he wondered what Alma would have made of this scene.

That thought prompted him to reaffirm his vow to rescue her and, settling down on the turf, he drifted into a, thankfully, dreamless sleep…

* * *

 

SSSSSS

DINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDING!

The sudden clamor shattered Izlude's slumber just as surely as a meteor spell, and he was on his feet groping for his sword before the bleariness had cleared from his eyes.

DINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDING!

"Wark?!" Nelly uttered, baffled, as she rose on her haunches and her eyes darted in all directions.

DINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDING!

"What in heaven's name is that?!" Izlude shouted, unable to hear himself over the din.

DINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDING!

He whirled in all directions, sweeping the horizon with his blade in case the sound might presage the arrival of some lesser servant of the demon who'd brought about his first death, but he could discern no danger.

DINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDING!

Apart from the possibility of being deafened by the noise, that is.

DINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDING!

"Mustadio, turn that damned thing off!" someone from below screamed.

DINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDING!

Bemused, the knight blade turned to the campsite to see Mustadio tinkering with a small object. From this distance, Izlude could just barely make out a circle of thick brass with two thin lengths of metal across a glass face. It reminded him of the large ornate clocks he'd once seen in Goug, except that this one was much smaller...and much, much noisier.

DINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDING!

"Mustadio, the whole province is awake by now!" another voice shouted. "Do something about that damned noise!"

DINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDING!

The machinist, apparently the only one unperturbed by the racket, fiddled with something in the back of the tiny clock and, at long last, it fell silent.

The knight blade sagged with relief, though the ringing in his ears would likely persist for some time. He suspected that it would be best for him to lay in wait until the group was underway again, but his curiosity once more prevailed. Daring a glance at the campsite, more cautiously since it was full daylight, he saw that Mustadio was being visited by an irate Lavian and Alicia. The twins had, apparently, been quite eager to take the machinist to task for the spectacle he'd caused, for they had emerged from their tent under-dressed...

...to put it mildly.

The knight blade felt a sudden, rather unpleasant warmth gathering at his cheeks as he took in the tall and beautiful blonde twins, clad in identical diaphanous gowns that left limbs bare and seemed as insubstantial as steam. Izlude supposed he was one to talk, since he'd seen Alma in considerably less, but the sight of two practically naked women, both of whom looked ready to tear Mustadio apart, was hardly a sight he relished seeing.

It must not have been a terribly uncommon occurrence in Ramza's eclectic band, however, since Mustadio had the wherewithal to place himself between the twins and his contraption. With an eerie syncopation, Lavian and Alicia crossed their arms and scowled threateningly.

"Oh, come on!" the machinist protested, raising his arms in defense. "The alarm clock is a revolutionary invention. You can't stop progress!"

"Oh, no?" Lavian or Alicia (Izlude couldn't tell them apart now that they were out of their differing uniforms) asked darkly.

"Watch us!" they said.

So saying, one of the women snatched up Mustadio's gun and aimed it at the device while the other snatched a hammer from the machinist's tool belt and drew it over her head to deliver an overpowering blow...

...only for the gun to emit a dry click when the trigger was pulled and the hammer's head to fall free of the handle and land on its wielder's head. The machinist, and Izlude, burst into laughter.

"The gun wasn't loaded," Mustadio pointed out cheekily, reclaiming his weapon. "And, the head on this hammer has to be latched on before use. Thanks for proving my point, though."

Lavian and Alicia, looking eerily identical in their vexation, stuck their tongues out at him and stalked off.

Left slack-jawed at the spectacle he'd just witnessed, Izlude turned to Nelly.

"Did that really just happen?" he asked, to which he received only a "wark" in reply.

If that was what every morning in Ramza's company looked like, he was now genuinely flummoxed as to how the young Beoulve had evaded capture thus far.

Still, since Izlude would have to wait until this strange band was underway again, he decided to settle in and watch.

He watched and, over time, he saw a great deal. The party broke their fast over what, from his present vantage point, he could only guess was a meal of plain but nourishing fare. Likely consisting of salted pork, apples, hard biscuits and butter, smoked fish, and-

Izlude's stomach grumbled, pointedly reminding him of just how long it had been since he had eaten. Nelly lost no time seconding the notion and, as was often the case, the knight blade had to offer her some greens before he could see to his own breakfast. After his grumbling stomach had settled, he turned his attention back to his quarry. Between bites, from what he could hear, they discussed their plans, reminisced about the lighter moments of their journey, and told jokes. As the meal concluded, they quickly broke their camp, dismantling the tents and loading them onto the pack chocobos. Despite more than a few flippant comments about who snored and the clatter of the alarm clock, they worked quickly and efficiently, which bespoke of long practice. Strange this band might be, but they were competent adventurers.

Soon enough, they were atop their mounts and riding single-file towards the stony maw of Dugeura Pass. Once they were well away, Izlude judged it safe to follow.

As Izlude prepared to follow the departing group, something disconcerting occurred to him.

Both Lavian and Alicia had gone into Rad's tent the previous evening and, by the look of things, hadn't emerged until Mustadio's "alarm clock" had roused half the kingdom. And, combining that with their disheveled and under-dressed states...

No, Izlude affirmed before his imagination could wander any further. Down that road lays madness…

As the days passed, Izlude continued to follow Ramza and his party quietly, taking care to remain close enough not to lose them, but also keeping far enough that he was not detected. This was no small task, as he was a knight, not an assassin or spy. He was not accustomed to creeping and skulking about through the open country, all the while desperately trying to make sure he didn't stumble or make some other sound that would cause fourteen pairs of eyes, and as many weapons, to turn his way. Yet, to his amazement, his luck held.

The first week and a half went by in much the same pattern. He would shadow Ramza and his companions as they journeyed towards Zeltennia where the Beoulve claimed Delita would be and, when they stopped for the night, he would find some concealment and settle in to watch.

He watched as Rafa and Malak went off some distance from the camp, the former tearing up before she sagged in her brother's grip. Malak brought her close, rubbing her back soothingly while his eyes blazed with hatred. That, the knight blade discovered a day or two later, was Rafa confessing the depravity Barrington had subjected her to behind closed doors.

That revelation punched a gasp from Izlude and, when Malak remarked that the Grand Duke was lucky to be dead, the knight blade had to agree.

Other sights caught his eye as well. Mustadio was often the last to seek his bedding, and he would spend much of the night tinkering with some gadget or other by the light of a lantern. What it was, Izlude could not say unless he was willing to venture closer...

...and, "closer" likely meant close enough to shake Mustadio's hand and ask to sit with him.

The notion had grown tempting over the past few days. Indeed, with his new appearance and his borrowed name, he might be able to contrive a back-story and join them. He discarded the notion, however, wary that someone amongst their number might recognize his voice. If that were so, what would surely ensue would be...unpleasant.

With a resigned shrug, the knight blade went back to watching the group. Whatever late night arrangement there was between Rad, Lavian and Alicia, which Izlude studiously avoided dissecting, was ongoing. Several times, the three had passed the night in the same tent and, when they emerged, there was such talk about "going all-in next time", a "bite", a "grind", "juice", and a "straddle grip".

With all manner of dreadful images threatening to emerge from the darkest places in his imagination, Izlude promptly turned his attention elsewhere.

Agrias continued to be a peculiarity amongst their number. When he'd chanced to catch sight of her bathing, he'd been able to suppress his embarrassment long enough to confirm the oddities he'd spied back in Riovanes. Apart from her rounder middle, rounder still than he had supposed, her breasts looked large and, judging by the way she periodically massaged her lower back, quite heavy. Redness had gathered about her ankles, which she gratefully plunged into a nearby stream. And, most peculiar, her lips would curve into a small smile and she would let out a soft sigh, all for no reason Izlude could discern.

Ramza was rarely far from her side, but, on those rare occasions when he was absent, Alicia and Lavian flanked her like bodyguards. Whenever the holy knight sought to remove a saddlebag from the chocobos, or replace it when it came time to depart, someone would always appear and insist on taking half the load.

She was far from idle, however. When the group decided to give their mounts a rest and paired off to train, she moved from warrior to warrior helping them to correct their grip, stance, thrusts, and slashes.

The knight blade saw still more as he continued to follow the group as they journeyed on, as they broke through the Nanten's lines at Dugeura Pass and pressed further into yet another hostile land.

Onward Ramza and company journeyed, leaving behind one danger only to charge into still another, and all the while with a lone rider following them like a second shadow.

Beyond Dugeura Pass, the journey continued for a time without incident. But, when the gates of the Free City of Bervenia rose before him, Izlude discovered that something was terribly wrong.

Within moments, however, he would have good cause to consider that a grave understatement.

As Ramza and his party approached the gate, the rasp of steel broke the calm stillness of the air. In an instant, a party of armed women - summoners, archers, and ninjas, all of which bore the emblem of the Knights Templar on their uniforms - leapt forth from the shadows of buildings to bar the party's path. The sound of a sword parting the air drew Ramza's eyes, and Izlude's, to a tall figure atop the gate. The knight blade beheld a tall young woman clad in a green cloak, beneath which he could spy the glimmer of the Templar's armor. A sword was in her mailed fist, and she leveled it at Ramza like an accusing finger. Despite the considerable distance between them, Izlude, nonetheless recognized the woman right away. And, when he did, he could feel the blood drain from his face.

His sister, Dame Meliadoul Tingel, a divine knight of the Glabados Chruch.

Gazing down upon Ramza and his party, Meliadoul's eyes narrowed and, when she spoke, her words smoked with hatred.

"Hold there! You will go no further!"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Ok, we will cut it off here. I had originally planned for Izlude's shadowing of Ramza and company to be one chapter but it was turning out to be longer than I expected so I will split it into two before fast-forwarding to the end of the Lion War. Once again, I would like to thank my co-writer and editor Falchion1984, for making this sequel possible


	4. The Storm

Izlude was still reeling from the sight of his sister, so shocked that she had suddenly appeared and brazenly challenged the same man who had slain demons, that he sat frozen in his saddle for a long, terrible moment. He shook his head from side to side, so vigorously that his neck ached in protest, and squeezed his eyes shut, vainly wishing the simple motion could unmake the scene, and the dilemma, playing out before him.

Yet, when he reluctantly let the curtain of his eyelids rise, the unfolding confrontation yet remained. And, a confrontation it would be. Though Ramza held up one hand to entreat for a truce, Meliadoul's blade never wavered and her dark green eyes blazed with fury.

"And, who are you to decide that?" Ramza retorted, though his free hand was straying towards his sword. "This is a free city, is it not? We bear you no hostility, so please let us through!"

Even from a distance, Izlude had no trouble seeing Meliadoul clench her teeth and her already livid expression harden into a glare, almost as if she thought the young noble's request to let him and his party pass through the city gates had left her rankled almost beyond thought. This, Izlude realized, was most bizarre. He had seen Melidoul in battle many times, and she acted little different from fighting foes with a real blade in her hands than she did when she was giving her little brother bruises with a wooden sword. She'd even been known to blow a kiss to a worthy opponent before delivering the death blow, her eyes dancing with emerald light and a throaty laugh more suited to a swashbuckler than a knight on her lips. Yet, now, she looked as wild and as bloodthirsty as a feral jungle cat, with all the mercy and humor thereof.

What could possibly have spun her into such a frenzy?

Then, he had a sudden, sickening presentiment that he already knew the answer.

"I am Meliadoul, and I have come to avenge my brother!" she proclaimed, confirming Izlude's worst fears.

The knight blade's jaw plummeted near to his saddle horn, and he brought up one fist to smack himself on the face.

 _Stupid, stupid, STUPID!_ he chided himself, realizing the depths of his oversight.

Clearly, his ruse at Riovanes had worked, as Meliadoul believed him to be dead. Yet, once again, Hasmalum had blindsided him. A disguised Lucavi demon Hasmalum might be, but he still wore the skin of the commander of the Church of Glabados's armed forces and spoke with his voice and authority.

And, what better scapegoat could he come up with for Izlude's death than, arguably, the single most sought after heretic in Ivalician history?

Izlude watched with horrified fascination as the subtlety of the scheme unfolded before him. Whether Hashmalum had seen through Izlude's deception, and decided not to risk Meliadoul becoming suspicious, or whether he'd believed it and used her brother's "death" as incentive, the result was the same. Either Ramza would kill Meliadoul and remove a potential threat within the Templar's ranks, or Meliadoul would kill Ramza and the Lucavi's plans would be that much closer to fruition.

Either way, Hasmalum would win...

...and, Izlude would lose.

"Brother?" Ramza spoke, clearly puzzled. "What are you talking about?"

Despite his fear, the knight blade reluctantly turned his gaze back to the young Beoulve and his sister, his very bones atremble with dread.

"Oh, so you're denying it? Izlude, whom you killed at Riovanes, was my brother! So I'm going to kill you, not for the high confessor, but for him!" Meliadoul screamed piercingly as she clutched her brother's dog tag in one fist. Even though she was too far away for Izlude to see the expression on her face, there was no mistaking the rage and anguish in her voice.

No doubt she had already seen the corpse of his decoy at the Riovanes Castle morgue, and she was obviously convinced that Sir Damien's savaged remains had been her brother's. Again, the knight blade repudiated himself for not having seen this coming. There had to have been something he could have done, some way to ensure that the truth reached Meliadoul. His more rational side tried to tell him that he could have done no such thing without putting his sister's life in danger and that, as enraged as Meliadoul was, she would not throw her life away fighting a battle she could not hope to win.

Yet, these placations were well and truly drowned out by his other side, which was near to panic with fright for the life of his only remaining family.

Forcing himself to look, he saw realization dawn on the Beoulve as he raised his hands in the air in a gesture of denial. "No, you've got it all wrong!" Ramza protested, though his words didn't even cause Meliadoul to blink. "I didn't kill Izlude! Do you have any idea what happened at Riovanes? That massacre wasn't the doing of any human! It was the work of demons! Izlude was killed by Lucavi!"

At Ramza's words, Meliadoul threw back her head and laughed bitterly, with several of her fellow Templars joining in.

"Lucavi?!" she repeated, the word causing a mirthless grin to tug at her features. "Are you saying Lucavi appeared and killed my brother?! Oh my, do you really expect me to believe that?! Can't you come up with a better lie?!"

Her split-second of mirth faded in an instant and Meliadoul's face once more contorted into a mask of fury. His sister's rage, Izlude could tell, was genuine and proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was not possessed by the Lucavi like the other high-ranking knights of the church. He suspected that the same held true for the Templars who were with her, since they had laughed while the disguised demons he'd met never so much as cracked a smile. The knight blade felt a little relief at that realization, but only a little. The success of his ruse proved to be a double-edge sword, and now it was about to cut the other way. With his sister convinced that Ramza had been the cause of his 'death', she was dead-set on killing the young noble.

Yet, if two Lucavi demons could not slay Ramza, then what chance did Meliadoul have?

Izlude feared he would soon find out.

Before Ramza could protest further, the female divine knight sounded the charge. Her fellow templars, in a maneuver that left Izlude stunned, streamed through the gate, abandoning the cover of the buildings to close the gap between themselves and Ramza. The knight blade struck his face again, but this time in frustration. His knight's side taking over, he quickly saw and gaped at the tactical blunder his sister had just committed. From the gate, her melee units could have formed a phalanx to bottleneck their foes while, from the rooftops, her archers and magic users could take advantage of the elevation to bombard their foes from afar. Yet, instead, she'd ordered her unit to break cover and attack, forfeiting the advantages of both cover and higher ground.

The battle savvy older sister he'd known would never have made such an egregious error.

But, that was before she'd had to bury who she thought was her younger brother.

Clearly, she had been spun up into such a fury that she wasn't thinking clearly.

Izlude wanted desperately to intervene, but he knew he had no chance of getting through to her. She was in no clear mind to listen, and he couldn't blame her. Were he in Meliadoul's place, he would have found his own claim hard to believe as well. From his hiding place, the knight blade watched in horror as his sister charged past the young Beoulve's warriors and went directly for Ramza himself, the rest of her party engaging his comrades. From his vantage point, Izlude saw, with mingled relief and apprehension, that his older sister hadn't lost all of her wits. She yet retained the wherewithal to use her divine knight skills, which she demonstrated as she swung forth her sword and conjured an arcing blade of energy at Ramza's feet. The young noble managed to leap away from the attack before it could crush his armor like a walnut, though he had been a split-second too slow to get his shield out of the way. The Spellbust Stab had only grazed the young Beoulve's shield, but even that been enough to shatter it. Surprised, but remarkably undaunted, Ramza took his sword in both hands and moved in closer, likely hoping to keep her too busy parrying to repeat the maneuver. And, perhaps, create an opening to plead his case.

Meliadoul, bringing up her own blade, met his attack with the shriek of an enraged Valkyrie and an overhand chop that had Ramza skidding to a stop. Again, Ramza did not flinch in the face of her wrath. He shifted the angle of his blade, allowing it to slide free and then unleashed a fierce riposte...

...fierce, despite the fact that he'd struck her with the flat of his blade.

The knight blade was surprised, and more than a bit relieved, that the blow had been dealt with the flat of the blade rather than the edge. Yet, Meliadoul was unmoved by the gesture and responded with a slash that, had Ramza not ducked, would have decapitated him.

With each grinding of metal and whistle of blade, Izlude felt the knot in his stomach grow tighter. He knew he should not intervene, for both his and Meliadoul's life could be in danger if he revealed himself, yet his heart hammered in his chest just as surely and loudly as Ramza's strikes banged against Meliadoul's shield. The knight blade had always been quite good at keeping his emotions in check during battle, yet his brow streamed and his hands shook as he watched Ramza and Meliadoul at each other's throats. And, even though he knew this battle was not his to fight, he felt as though he were being skewered with tempered steel himself as the gulf between his duty to his mission and his duty to his loved ones yawned wider and wider.

Distantly, the knight blade observed that Ramza was a magnificent fighter. His stance and footing, honed by many months of almost daily combat against his myriad pursuers, was immaculate, allowing him to divert Meliadoul's blade with only a modicum of effort. Between that, and being too close to Meliadoul for her to employ any more of her divine knight skills, his defense was impeccable. His offense, however, was less impressive...but only because he was holding back. Meliadoul's blade came whistling at him again and again, the shriek of the angered Valkyrie punctuating each blow. Again and again, the young Beoluve caught her blade with his own and deflected it, knocked it aside, or dodged it entirely. But, every counter blow was dealt either with the flat of his blade or his fist.

 _He doesn't want to kill her_ , Izlude realized with amazement. _He's avoiding even wounding her!_

The knight blade would have been impressed by the gesture if it hadn't been so clear that the chivalrous sentiment was not mutual. Each parry and dodge seemed to enrage Meliadoul all the more.

"Stand and fight, damn you!" she railed, her voice singing the ears of Beoulve and knight blade alike. "Has killing one Tingel left you too craven to fight another!?"

As Ramza dodged the divine knight's energy attacks, he cried out in frustration. "Dammit, you're the same as Izlude! You don't know anything! You don't realize that you're just puppets dancing for the Lucavi! The stones aren't just objects of faith, but have the power to work miracles! That power is different for each hand that wields it, but they're using it for evil! Wake up, Meliadoul! Vormav is deceiving you!"

At the mention of their father's name, Izlude felt a ripple of grief at his heart, wondering what his father's dispossessed spirit made of this horrific spectacle. Yet, that musing only served to drive home in Izlude's mind that Ramza was right. Meliadoul truly knew nothing of her father's soul being evicted in favor of the demon, Hashmalum, and her behavior proved it.

"Ha, do you take me for a fool?!" she spat. "Vormav is our father!"

Izlude imagined that, upon hearing that revelation, the young Beoulve had blanched as though a vampire from pagan myth had sunk fangs into his neck and drained him dry. No doubt he was wondering how he could not have seen the family resemblance. While her long, dark chestnut hair was covered by the hood of her cloak, Izlude knew, as Ramza had surely discovered, that Meliadoul shared Vormav's and Izlude's dark-green eyes, high-cheekbones, and facial structure, as well as their sharp nose. Izlude also gleaned that Ramza had also judged that, by her appearance, she was slightly older than her brother. A sad sigh parted his lips, causing the knight blade to fear that learning Meliadoul's connection to Vormav and Izlude, as well as her unwillingness to listen, had caused Ramza to decide that he had no choice but to fight. The slight sag of his shoulders said that he did not wish to harm her, but that he couldn't let himself be killed here, especially with the fate of Alma, not to mention the world itself, at stake in this game of war.

Thus resigned, the young Beoulve managed to get past Meliadoul's shield and scoured a line into her armor. The next blow, surely, would draw blood...and, perhaps, more.

At that moment, Izlude, nearly mad with fear for the lives of both combatants, could no longer restrain himself. He spurred Nelly forward and, as he drew within earshot, he shouted Meliadoul's name at the top of his lungs.

"Meliadoul, wait! I'm right-" a strange voice called out, causing Izlude to jerk his mount to a halt.

The question was his, the lips that formed it were his as well...

...but, the voice that spoke it wasn't.

"Did that come from me?" the strange voice asked, as Izlude's lips formed those very same words.

A few experimental utterances confirmed it; the knight blade no longer sounded like himself, but like a completely different person. His voice was deeper with a burr, and his tongue came to a strange, glottal stop after the vowels. The voice was not his, but he had a pretty good idea who it belonged to. Could the stone, which granted him his altered appearance, have also disguised his voice as well? Was this the voice of Damien Mitchell, as he had sounded in life? And, why hadn't the strange alteration taken hold when he was still at Riovanes, coaxing Nelly to sniff his hand? Whatever the cause, he supposed it didn't matter. If he wasn't certain before, he was now; neither Meliadoul nor Ramza, as well as either of their parties, would believe that Izlude Tingel wore Damien Mitchell's face. Izlude realized the foolishness of what he had just done; his appearance and voice had been altered by the holy stone, so much so on both counts that even if his sister saw and heard him, she would neither recognize him nor desist in attacking Ramza and his party. In fact, if his presence was detected, either party, of both, might even turn on him as well. Luckily, no one seemed to have heard him over the din of the fierce battle.

 _Yes, lucky_ , Izlude mused sourly. _The sort of luck one attributes to having an arm lopped off instead of a head!_

Izlude, fuming with impotent rage and chill worry curdling in his gut, turned Nelly around and rode back to the concealment of a hill. He tried vainly to force himself to calm down, all the while arguing with himself that he ought to be grateful that nobody had spied him and turned a blade in his direction. Yet, that voice was little more than a whisper against the relentless banging, clanging, shouting, and grunting of the battle. He clapped his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut, fighting back tears as his love's brother and his beloved sister continued their dance of death. Ramza would not kill Meliadoul, he kept on telling himself, though he could not be certain if he was trying to convince himself or merely trying to drown out the song of steel on steel.

Then, the song came to an abrupt end with a piercing scream from Ramza and a female voice that seemed to be choking on something.

Fearfully, Izlude turned in the direction of the sound and opened his eyes.

What he saw froze his blood.

Ramza, a shocked expression on his face, was staring at his blade which was buried near to the hilt in Meliadoul's stomach. Denying what he saw with all his might, Izlude nonetheless watched in frozen horror as Meliadoul slid free of Ramza's blade and sagged to the ground, redness pooling beneath her.

Izlude could barely see this through eyes now brimming with tears, but the sight was nearly enough to make him wish the holy stone had withheld its miraculous gift.

Death would have spared him the pain of seeing this.

Yet, his anguish turned into astonishment as Ramza fished two flasks out of his satchel and tipped one into Meliadoul's mouth. In the same motion, the young Beoulve emptied the second over the crimson stain on Meliadoul's abdomen.

Greater astonishment were still to come.

Meliadoul cried out in pain as the liquid made contact.

The knight blade watched, slack jawed, as the liquid on Meliadoul's stomach hissed and bubbled before evaporating, leaving unbroken skin behind.

Still coughing from the pain and her eyes wary, Meliadoul climbed to her feet and stared at the young Beoulve in mingled anger and bewilderment.

"Why did you do that?" she asked angrily. "Don't think this will make me forget my brother's death!"

"Your brother is exactly why I healed you," Ramza answered. "I've said it before and I'm saying it again; I didn't kill your brother! I can't prove it, and my tale is quite hard to swallow, but it's the truth. Think about it, you saw the bodies. Their heads crushed like melons and their flesh torn to ribbons. What human could do that? What human would do that?"

Meliadoul's gnashed teeth vanished as her lips pressed together in a thin, grim line. She was plainly not convinced, but it seemed as though a seed of doubt had taken root. Realizing that the battle was lost in any case, the divine knight was forced to admit defeat.

"Urgh, you're strong! No wonder Wiegraf lost! No matter, though. You can tell all the tales you like, but you have no proof. Next time we meet is the day you die, Ramza! Remember that!" Sheathing her sword, Meliadoul gave Ramza one last dirty look and murmured a strange phrase. A column of light erupted from beneath her feet and, when the light vanished, so too had Meliadoul. The rest of her party followed suit, teleporting away from the battlefield. After a long moment, during which he took tally of both parties and saw that nobody had been killed or seriously hurt, Izlude breathed a sigh of relief and sagged in his saddle. Beneath him, Nelly let out a soft "wark".

"Yeah, I know," Izlude replied, sensing the chocobo's mood just as surely as she'd sensed his. "I feel like I aged a year today. But, we were very lucky back there."

And, indeed, "luck" was the word for it. The knight blade had been truly amazed that Ramza would not only hold back from killing an enemy, but would heal one which had been mortally wounded. Ramza was, indeed, a great man; greater than Izlude, or even Alma, would have guessed. And, for the first time of the many that would follow, he uttered a whispered prayer that would've turned white the hair of any agent of the corrupt church.

"God bless you, Ramza Beoulve."

With the battle having ended, Ramza quickly saw to his party, looking for injuries and checking for equipment that might have been damaged by an errant Spellbust Stab or Icewolf Bite. Seeing none, he gave the order to proceed through the city, reluctantly deciding that seeking the inns and shops would be most unwise when the Templar might return in greater numbers. Once they were far enough ahead that none would spy him, the knight blade continued to follow them, their shadow once more. Having thought it too dangerous to restock their supplies in Bervenia, they put some distance between themselves and the free city and then divided to hunt, fish, and forage. Most of the group dispersed and, after a dispute between Ramza and the twins, the young Beoulve snatched up a fishing pole and headed off. Agrias, who had also stayed behind, looked more than a bit put out. She plopped onto a fallen log - rather heavily, Izlude noted - and blew out an aggravated breath that sounded quite at odds with her reputation for coldness. Lavian and Alicia promptly seated themselves on either side of the holy knight, and the three began speaking, though too softly for Izlude to hear. Whatever was said, it seemed to help Agrias's mood, for she smiled and offered no complaint when one giggling twin hugged her from before and the other from behind. After a time, the rest of the group returned with game and fish and, in Mustadio's case, an elk of remarkable size which he dragged on an improvised sled cunningly woven of stout branches, thick vines, and large leaves.

Even after it was full, Izlude's stomach complained mightily at Ramza and company's far more appealing fare.

* * *

The days went by as Ramza's company and their faithful shadow continued onward to Finnath Creek. By that time, the weather had soured as an overcast sky promptly unleashed a torrent of rain. Nelly floundered in the mud and Izlude was hard pressed to keep up. Luckily, the rain ran out before his determination or his luck did. And, much to the knight blade's relief, he soon caught up with the group, all of whom were safe and sound, making camp while they dried off. After making sure he was a safe distance away, Izlude dismounted to find a spot to sleep himself. Much to his displeasure, and to Nelly's far greater displeasure, he would have to sleep without the comfort of a campfire in order to avoid being discovered. But, Izlude did not mind. Apart from his being more than capable of bedding down in the rough country when need be - so much so that he could also sleep in his armor if he had to, having done so many times after previous battles - his relief over Ramza's sparing Meliadoul was a potent balm against the pebbles and roots beneath him. His blankets, the warmth of Nelly, and his renewed conviction that, as the young Beoulve and his party were strong enough to take on and defeat two Lucavi demons, they would surely prevail, was more than enough to keep him warm.

Exhausted from following Ramza, as well as the hectic events that had ensued since his resurrection, he fell asleep quickly. Being the light sleeper that he was, the knight blade awoke early the next morning when he heard Ramza's party preparing to break camp and leave after having eaten breakfast. After they had finished packing, Ramza led his party back on the road to Zeltennia, with their shadow faithfully, though stealthily, following behind.

When they arrived at their destination the following day, some discreet questions from the less-recognizable members of Ramza's band revealed that Delita would soon be at prayer within an elegant church in the heart of the city. Surreptitiously following the group, Izlude arrived in time to see the young Beoulve direct his party to stay hidden outside while he went in, probably to meet Delita as he intended. Though Delita had been his friend, there was no mistaking the wariness in his posture as Ramza entered. A half-hour passed, though it felt more like half a year, when the knight blade noticed the arrival of another group with a far darker purpose. At their head was an elderly man that Izlude knew well, having seen him speak with his 'father' many times. It was Confessor Zalmo Rusnada, a seasoned heresy examiner of some renown, whom he guessed was here to arrest Ramza for his supposed crime of heresy. The knight blade watched as the confessor shouted orders for Ramza to come out and surrender himself. Unlike the battle with Meliadoul, Izlude had no compunction against staying out of this fight. He had no love for the vicious old man, and had at times suspected him of being a Lucavi demon in human form as well, though he was not certain of this. While he was concerned for his love's brother, Izlude had no doubt that Ramza and his friends would find Zalmo to be no challenge after having defeated two Lucavi demons as well as a seasoned combatant as his sister. As he watched, Ramza exited the church, but he was not alone. Delita was at his side, much to the surprise of both Ramza's party and the confessor's.

"You! You're the black knight, Hyral! Why are you here?" Zalmo demanded, and Izlude suspected what would surely ensue. Having seen Delita with Ramza, Zalmo surely suspected that Delita was not nearly so loyal to the church as the Black Ram lieutenant had professed. No doubt Zalmo would seek to arrest him as well, but Delita was far too cunning and powerful a quarry to allow that.

"Confessor Zalmo! Now that you've seen my face, I cannot let you live!" Turning to his friend, he whispered "Let's go, Ramza!"

"They're unknowingly part of the high confessor's plot!" the Beoulve hissed. "If you explain it well, they'd understand."

Delita scowled, clearly displeased by his friend's words, though his mouth soon curved into a mirthless grin. "Are you still that naive?" he asked incredulously. "Well, good luck!"

Izlude watched as the two friends - or, at least, temporary allies - drew their swords. Ramza called out for his party to come to their aid. Delita attracted many a wary glance, but the knights and mystics at Zalmo's side quickly turned their attention elsewhere. Ramza's party was a well-oiled fighting machine, with bullets, shuriken, and spells felling Zalmo's knights before they could get within reach, while mystics fell to sword, katana, lance, and rod. Coupled with the addition of a knight as skilled as Delita Hyral fighting at their side, Izlude suspected that Zalmo did not have long to live. And, he was soon proven right. Delita dodged a mystic's spell and, holy blade lifted high, summoned shards of ice that encased the offending magic user. The ice shattered, and so very nearly too did the mystic.

A moment later, Izlude was amazed to see the normally stoic and unreadable Delita actually grin at his friend in the midst of the battle while shouting "Just like old times, eh, Ramza?" His friend could not help but return his smile, though the knight blade could tell it was more than a little forced. Whatever light-hearted moment between the two friends there was did not last long, however. It seemed Ramza would have been content to simply force the old man to retreat, which suggested that Zalmo, for all his impassioned calls for bloodshed, was ignorant of the Lucavi's plot. Delita, however, seemed to have other plans. If Delita did, indeed, have schemes of his own, and they ran counter to those of the church, he could leave no witnesses. And, sure enough, the Black Ram lieutenant slipped through the enemy lines and, before Ramza he could stop his friend, Delita ran Zalmo through with his sword as soon as he was within striking range. The old man sagged to the turf, the grass reddening beneath him, and he rasped out one last prayer for God to punish the wicked before, perhaps by chance or by irony, his prayers ended in a death rattle. With the old confessor dead, his troops panicked and fled, throwing down their weapons so that they might run all the faster. There was no mistaking the outrage on the young Beoulve's face as Ramza, appalled, but not truly surprised, whirled on Delita. His one-time friend, and Izlude found himself wondering if that 'one-time' had come and gone, bent over the confessor's corpse and he wiped blood off his sword with Zalmo's own robe.

"Was that really necessary?!" Ramza demanded, livid at the callous display.

"Oh, come now, don't give me that look, Ramza," Delita said in a chiding tone. "You know he would have killed us both if he got the chance. If anything, you should be thanking me, at least you can rest assured the old man won't be going after you anymore."

Ramza seemed far from mollified, for his eyes narrowed and his fist tightened until the leather of his glove squealed in protest.

"Perhaps not, but others will take his place," he snarled.

"Still, one less pursuer for you," Delita countered with practiced smoothness.

That did not seem to make the young Beoulve feel any better, and the reason was hardly a secret. Undoubtedly, he suspected that he'd likely be blamed for murdering Confessor Zalmo, as well as Cardinal Draclau. And, more than that, though Draclau had been a Lucavi demon, Zalmo clearly was not. Thus, if Izlude had Ramza partially figured out, the young Beoulve saw this battle as needless and those that had died as puppets, casually thrown to their deaths by their unseen demonic puppet masters. Delita seemed to sense Ramza's ill mood, but he offered no words of comfort. Instead, he decided to guide their discussion along another path. "So, what do you plan to do next?"

Ramza looked as though he were tempted to forcibly turn the conversation back to his friend's earlier actions, but then he seemed to reconsider. Perhaps he decided that he could not afford to waste time arguing with Delita over Zalmo's death, or maybe he sensed that he would be wasting his breath trying to lecture the Black Ram lieutenant on the sanctity of life. In either case, Ramza forced himself to calm down as he answered "I had two reasons for coming here: one was to see you. The other was to see Count Orlandu."

At the mention of the count's name, Delita raised an eyebrow. "Thundergod Cid?"

Ramza nodded. "I need his cooperation to uncover the church's plot."

"How?"

"I have strong evidence that will uncover the wrong-doing."

At this, a cunning grin tugged at the corners of Delita's mouth, as though his mind's eye beheld the great board of this game of war, and one of his pieces had moved to a place most advantageous.

"Ah, the Germonik Scriptures!" he deduced.

"Yes," Ramza confirmed, though Izlude wondered if he'd been wise to do so. "When I met Olan, the count's adopted son, he promised me that, if I could provide proof, he would stop the high priest's conspiracy."

Delita brought up one gauntlet-ed finger and stroked his chin, seemingly in deep thought. "Olan, huh?"

Before Ramza could ask his friend what was percolating in his cunning mind, a young blonde woman dressed in a maroon tunic and blue cloak stepped out of the shadows and approached the pair. Upon seeing her, Ramza turned warily towards Delita.

"It's ok" the Black Ram lieutenant assured "She's one of us. Several people were sent from Murond to help us. She's one of them."

The blonde woman raised an eyebrow at these words. "Help? More like keep an eye on you," she retorted. She spoke with a deep, lilting accent that Izlude had never heard before, suggesting that she was not a native Ivalician. What country she could possibly be from, Izlude had no idea, since he never seen or heard her like before. Judging by the look of perplexity on his face, Ramza hadn't either.

Delita's typically cryptic features showed a hint of annoyance at his blonde companion's barb. "Hey, c'mon, give me a break, will you?" he hissed before turning back to Ramza and clearing his throat. "Anyway, she knows everything, she's the only one we can trust in the Goltana army."

The young woman turned to Ramza. Upon seeing the young Beoulve, and apparently finding the sight to her liking, she smirked and offered her hand. "You're the youngest Beoulve, right? I'm Balmafula Lanando. Nice to meet you."

Having seen a sampling of what Delita was willing to do to fulfill his agenda, Izlude was not surprised when Ramza hesitated. After a moment, however, Ramza warily took her hand and gave it a gentle shake. "Nice to meet you too, my lady."

Balmafula's dark eyes twinkled with delight at the young Beoulve's response to her gesture, and she let out a merry laugh. This, the knight blade noted, seemed to displease Delita, for he cleared his throat to catch the pair's attention when Balmafula's gaze lingered on his friend's face a little too long for his liking. "And, what do you want?" he demanded, his typically cool tone nowhere in evidence.

The young woman shot him an annoyed look, but seemed to remember herself a moment later. She squared her shoulders and straightened, the rigidity of her posture giving Izlude an ill presentiment. And, sure enough, his discomfiture proved justified.

"The Hokuten are moving," She answered.

Izlude's borrowed eyebrows shot clear up into his borrowed hairline. These words summoned to mind something he had heard during the journey from Riovanes, but which he'd nearly forgotten amidst the intervening travails. Though Ramza and company's supposed heresy necessitated that they keep a low profile, they did stop at certain towns long enough to hear the latest news. The continued disintegration of Ivalice's economy and the ever mounting casualties in the war had spurred many to rebellion and, though both dukes now sat on powder kegs instead of thrones, they lacked the men to fight the enemy at home as well as at their border.

For such a major troop movement to take place, it would seem that a critical point had finally been reached.

"Is Fort Besselet the target?" Delita asked, though he sounded as though he already knew the answer.

She nodded. "Count Orlandu left for the fort a while ago. Goltana is also heading there, along with your Black Ram knights."

That confirmed the knight blade's supposition. Larg and Goltana must've realized that, for both of them, it was now or never. Unless a victory, a decisive victory, happened soon, there was no telling how long the war might drag on. Or, for that matter, just how much of a kingdom would be left afterwards. This realization, Izlude imagined, would manifest in a great battle at Fort Besselet, which guarded the fertile lands of the Goltana-allied province of Limberry and, with it, the best chance of victory for either side.

A victory that would come with the deaths of hundreds of thousands of men-at-arms, and ensure that the church, Lucavi allied or not, would face scant opposition.

"A little too late… the battle won't end." Delita murmured, as though agreeing with Izlude's notion, his chin nestling into the curve of his fist and his brow furrowing in deep concentration.

More than a few, even amongst the bravest, would have grimly agreed with that assessment, judging that particular battle to have been lost and that time was better spent making sure the war did not follow suit. Yet, Ramza was no ordinary man and, after all that he'd been through, the word "impossible" held little meaning for him. He shook his head defiantly, rising to his full height and his voice rose with him. "I'm not giving up!" he vowed thunderously. "I'll persuade the count before any more die."

It might have been Izlude's imagination, but he could have sworn that Delita's answering sigh held a note of regret. Before the knight blade could make sense of that, the Black Ram lieutenant seemed to decide that there was nothing he could do or say to change his friend's mind. With a smile that almost seemed benign, and likely conjured regret from both men, he offered his hand. "I guess this is good-bye, Ramza."

"Stay alive, Delita. We live in dangerous times now…" Ramza warned as he took his friend's hand, a bit less reservedly than before.

The Black Ram lieutenant smiled, though a hint of bitterness crossed his face. "Since when did we ever do otherwise? In any case, I understand. You stay alive too."

The young Beoulve nodded and took leave of his friend. His eyes flicked to one side, as though he were about to stop and say more, or as if he were about to take a backward glance. But, at the last moment, he reconsidered and continued on.

Curious about the remaining pair, and having to wait to continue his pursuit in any case, Izlude kept watch as Delita and Balmafula watched the young Beoulve depart. The blonde magician seemed to have found the exchange between the two amusing and, once Ramza was out of earshot, her gaze alighted upon Delita.

"So, you're just going to let him go?" she asked, her dark eyes narrowing.

Delita nodded. "I know what he'll do…"

Apparently, so did blonde magician. For, upon hearing these words, she regarded him with thinly veiled disgust. "You even use your friends…" she said simply, though with a clear note of distaste.

Delita shot her a glare, his incredulity surprising Izlude. "Shut up! What do you know?!" he snarled.

Balmafula, clearly unimpressed, returned his glare with equal venom. "I hate people like you," she spat.

"Just hurry up and go!" Delita ordered, eager to get the woman out of his sight. And, from the look on her face, it was clear that the feeling was mutual, and Balmafula left him without another word.

After watching Balmafula depart, Izlude realized that it was time to take his leave as well. Mounting Nelly, the knight blade left the church to continue his pursuit of Alma's brother, whom he still believed would somehow lead him to his love. How long it would be before Ramza and Hashmalum's parties met at Orbonne for the final confrontation, Izlude could not say. But, he'd vowed that he would travel from one end of the world to the other if it meant rescuing his beloved from the Lucavi's sinister machinations.

Unfortunately, that meant he now had to follow Ramza to Fort Besselat, which meant another two days of hard travel, since he'd judged that Ramza's party would journey there by the most direct route they could find. And, as if that wasn't enough, the most direct route would take them, as well as Izlude, through the Beddha Sandwaste. That had worried the knight blade, since the desert offered dangers of its own and was sorely lacking in concealment. As it turned out, however, Ramza and company had far more pressing matters to deal with than their persistent shadow. As they arrived at the crumbled remains of an outpost, they came face to face with another Knight Templar that was a passing acquaintance of Izlude's. His name was Balk Fenzol who, though a knight by vocation, was also a skilled chemist as well as a machinist, and thus shared Mustadio and Besrodio's knowledge of guns. He was clearly not a Lucavi, since there was no feigning his contempt for the crown and the nobility which Izlude recalled from his previous life. That, however, proved a small comfort. The party had arrived just in time to see the chemist knight remove a glass vial, cover his face, and empty it into the air. The harsh desert winds caught the contents of the vial, carrying it away in the form of a strange mist that caused an icy chill to run up the knight blade's spine.

It was not unlike the chill he'd felt when faced with his 'father's' transformation...and, that chill meant death.

"They're all spread?" he asked his unit, to which they nodded in answer. "Good… we've got a nice wind going on here. Should be enough to float them around the air for most of the day."

"What was that?!" Ramza demanded.

Upon hearing the young Beoulve's voice, Balk whirled and saw Ramza. The chemist knight clearly had not expected discovery, for he drew back a pace and his lower jaw sagged. "Uh-oh, didn't think I'd see you here."

"What are the Knights Templar doing here?" Ramza pressed, his sword already in his fist. "You said 'spread' ... just what the hell did you 'spread'?"

The chemist knight, who Izlude recalled, was quite fond of explaining his genius, regained his composure and grinned. "I guess I can tell you since there's nothing you can do about it now."

"Spill it! Just what the hell did you spread?!"

"This!" Balk shouted with glee as he fished out another vial and hurled it towards Ramza and his party. It struck the half buried stones of the crumbled outpost and disintegrated, releasing the same sinister green mist Balk had scattered earlier. Izlude was upwind and much too far away to be affected, but Ramza went down on his knees, hacking terribly. The knight blade, concern tugging him closer to the young Beoulve, noted that the hacking Ramza's lips were flecked with blood.

"Poison!" Ramza gagged, confirming Izlude's guess as the rest of his companions collapsed to their knees, coughing and hacking through blood flecked lips.

"So what do you think? I'll spread this to the Hokuten camp. Any soldier who inhales this will be too sick to fight!" Balk gloated, so haughtily one would think he'd resurrected all of the lost sciences from Ajora's time.

Understanding dawned on the young Beoulve as he gasped "The High Confessor doesn't want Goltana to win the war!"

"That's right! If the Hokuten cannot fight, the Nanten will open the fortress and attack with their full might. Besselet will be all but emptied, leaving us the perfect opportunity to kill both Goltana and Orlandu. Of course, plans are set to kill Larg in the confusion as well. It'll probably be easier to kill him in the chaos caused by the poison."

"What? But why?!" Ramza cried, visibly appalled by Balk's designs.

"Who cares? You should be happy, the war will finally end! From now on, we'll be the center of authority. The people want that! And that means no more of you aristocrats running the kingdom!"

Ramza shook his head fiercely, and Izlude found himself following suit. While Balk's anger towards the crown and the nobility was well founded, his solution was far worse than anything either of the dukes could devise. In order to eliminate the dukes and their closest allies, the church had stooped to setting the stage for a massacre. If was allowed to proceed, Balk's plan would exact a death toll not seen since the Fifty Years War.

Thousands upon thousands would die before the sun had set.

"No!" Ramza cried, his next words nearly lost amidst a blood frothed cough. "I won't let that happen! I'll end the war differently!"

"And just how are you going to clean up rotten Ivalice?" The chemist knight sneered "You should know that unless you clean out the rot, the same thing will happen over and over!

The young Beoulve glared at Balk. "And 'cutting' is your only solution? Not everyone is rotten, there are many who aren't! There should be other solutions besides war!"

"There are no other 'solutions'! As long as you're aristocrats, we'll always be exploited! There's no such thing as equality; one side is always being exploited and I'd rather be on the exploiting side after I overthrow you!"

"Then the same thing will repeat itself; someday, you will be overthrown by someone else!"

"You're being an idealistic hypocrite!"

"Maybe so, but I'll not allow you to carry out your mad plan!"

"Haha, I'd knew you'd say that! Get 'em, boys!"

Balk cocked his gun and took aim at the young Beoulve and, once again, Izlude feared for the life of his love's brother. Yet, it seemed luck was still with both young men. Whatever poison Ramza inhaled was not swiftly lethal, for he managed to rise to his feet. Balk's confident smirk wavered, and then turned into a snarl as the rest of Ramza's party roused themselves and charged. This, too, Balk had not expected, and it showed. While the chemist knight was a brilliant man, he had the mentality of an overlarge schoolyard bully, chronically overconfident and too often underestimating his opponents. Apparently not having enough poison left to seriously affect even a handful of people, since he already used up most of his supply for his scheme, he ordered his unit to take to the high ground and assume a defensive posture.

Such a strategy might have worked, as it gave Balk, his archers, and his black mage the advantage of elevation. But, the ruined outpost was replete with low walls that acted as blind spots, concealing Ramza and company as they worked their way around and behind Balk's line of sight. While Lavian and Alicia used their respective talents to support the rest of the attacking party, drawing on the chemist's skill set to cure the poison and heal the wounded, the attacking party leapt atop the wall to catch Balk from behind. The pair of archers flanking him died before they could even reach their quivers, and the battle was decided when Mustadio shot Balk through the heart. The chemist knight, looking positively mortified at this reversal, sagged to the sand covered stone and breathed his last. The remaining Templars, by then, were either dead or had retreated, and Ramza ordered his companions to continue on to Fort Besselat. Ramza's party, and their faithful shadow, pressed on with all the haste they could muster.

If they failed here, the Lucavi would find Ivalice waiting for them on a silver platter.

* * *

When Izlude finally beheld the tall towers of Fort Besselat, he let out a scratchy sigh of relief and wiped the sweat off his brow. If he had not been impressed, and more than a bit incensed by Ramza's pace, he certainly was now. He had lost sight of the young Beoulve's party as they pressed on southward through the desert and, after losing nearly an hour trying to spot some tracks that the wind had not already erased, he finally picked up their trail again. However, as he left behind the sand and scrub brush, the sight that greeted him was even worse than he had expected.

And he had expected it to be very, very bad.

On either side of Fort Besselet, there were vast hosts of men-at-arms, thousands strong on either side. Many were mounted, many more were afoot, and banners of every knightly order and noble house that Izlude had ever even heard of snapped in the wind. Both armies had coiled like great armored serpents, poised to strike at any moment...and play right into the Lucavi's clawed hands. Glancing over his shoulder, Izlude could see ribbons of green mist fluttering on the wind, and knew it was only a matter of time before the Hokuten were crippled and the Nanten moved in to commence the massacre.

The knight blade wondered despairingly how Ramza could hope to avert such a disaster, even if he secured the aid of Count Orlandu. Then, with an ominous creaking and groaning, he had his answer.

Just in front of him was the floodgate of Besselet, brimming over with water.

And, that gate was opening.

Like the maw of an enormous beast, the two halves of the floodgate, dozens of times Izlude's own height, yawned wide. From within erupted a great torrent of water, surging out onto the dry land rumbling like a thunderstorm that had strayed too close to the earth. With each passing moment, more and more of the sun baked earth was turned to swamp, the lower ground literally devoured by the liberated lake. Relentlessly, it crashed onward, reaching towards the battlefield the battlefield with claws of foam. Every pair of eyes turned in the direction of the oncoming flood, and the battle was promptly forgotten. Both sides, all those amongst them who could move quickly enough, wheeled about and raced for the safety of higher ground, jostling and trampling each other in their headlong, panicked flight. The knight blade did likewise, whirling Nelly about and snapping the reins. At another time, he might have been impressed by the simple elegance of Ramza's solution. With the battlefield flooded, the two rival armies would see no battle, and the machinations of the corrupt church and the Lucavi would be dealt a mighty blow.

Indeed, Izlude would have been bowing to Ramza's cunning if he wasn't in danger of being swept away by the tide.

The thunder in his ears grew ever louder and, when he dared a glance back, trickles of foam teased at his cheeks like probing fingers seeking to seize him and drag him in. He urged Nelly on, but his normally indefatigable mount was nearly spent from the frantic pursuit across the sandwastes. She faltered, and the current engulfed them both...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Ok, we're going to end Izlude's pursuit right here. I prefer not to parrot parts of the game that the fans are already familiar with but it was quite necessary before we can continue with the 'main' story of Izlude's search for Alma; he will have no active role until after Alma's rescue by Ramza and company so we can finally fast-forward to post Lion War Ivalice. Once again, I would like to thank my co-writer and editor, Falchion1984 for making this sequel possible ^^


	5. New Lives, New Beginnings

Ivalice had been engulfed by flames, but the fires had guttered out.

The country had been devoured by floods, but the waters had receded.

The fields had been darkened by famine, but were now green once more.

Would-be tyrants had risen, but they had been toppled.

The people had suffered, but now they looked to the future with guarded hope.

The War of the Lions was over.

Two months had passed since Ramza and his companions had, at long last, tracked the imprisoned Alma to Murond Death City and vanquished the High Seraph Ajora, foremost of the Lucavi demons in Ivalice. Once the group had emerged from the ruins beneath Orbonne Monastery, Ramza had thought it best that the companions disperse and go into hiding, at least for a time. Even with the death of the High Confessor, as well as many of the most powerful officials and Templar of the Church of Glabados, the young Beoulve was still a sought after fugitive, perhaps even more so since the deaths of so many powerful figures had surely heightened his already infamous profile. His companions, who had followed Ramza through hell - literally, some of them claimed after their escapade through the Death City - were quite reluctant to abandon their leader. But, Ramza had convinced them that it would be best if they were no longer associated with him and Alma. And, thus, most of them acquiesced to his wishes, disappearing into the shadows and listening as the people of Ivalice gushed over their newly crowned king.

Delita Hyral the First.

If Ramza had believed himself to be past being surprised by Delita's machinations, then this news had forced him to concede that he'd been wrong. He had to admit that his former friend was exceedingly clever, earning the trust of powerful men who were blinded by their own ambitions, and then discarding them once they'd outlived their usefulness, all the while cultivating for himself an angelic image as a storybook peasant prince who'd risen from obscurity to wed a princess and bring peace to a troubled realm.

Ramza and his companions were likely the only people still alive to know the truth behind Delita's carefully crafted facade.

Yet, the young Beoulve kept his silence and had encouraged his companions to do the same.

Perhaps he had foreseen that their words would never been heeded.

Maybe it was because, despite Delita's methods, the people of Ivalice had at least some hope for a better future, and the young Beoulve could not bring himself to damage that hope.

Or, it might have been because, while people touted Delita's ascension as a miracle, the young Beoulve presenting had a miracle of a different sort to deal with.

One more common, and yet infinitely more precious.

"You're doing good, Lady Agrias!" the voice of Reis Dular rang out, muffled by the heavy door frame. "Just a little longer. Now, push!

Ever since that fateful day at Fort Ziekden, when the life Ramza had taken for granted had ended with a booming finality no less thunderous that the power kegs' exploding, very little of his new life had gone as expected...

...not the least of these surprises was that, very soon, he was going to be a father.

The young Beoulve had barely given even cursory thought to the notion of taking a wife and having a family, not even when friends of his father still saw fit to parade their daughters before him at the occasional ball. Yet, when he'd first met Agrias, he'd quickly been struck by her beauty, poise, and courage. At first, the feeling had been far less-than-mutual, as she had seen him as an impetuous child who was too young and green to have a place on the battlefield.

Yet, over time, across battlefields where they'd fought shoulder to shoulder and campfires where they'd shared many a watch by moonlight, the embers of her distrust had cooled. She had gradually become impressed by his considerable, if raw, skill and courage, and had helped him to temper these traits with good judgment and forethought. Upon learning of his infamous lineage, she had heard his explanation and had even voiced the belief that, if Balbanes yet lived, he would have been proud of his youngest son.

Ramza, in turn, had found himself aiding Agrias following Ovelia's decision to throw in her lot with Delita. The holy knight, who'd loved Ovelia like a sister, had been deeply hurt by the knowledge that the gentle princess would ally herself with such a man. But, the likelihood that she'd never see Ovelia again was the deeper wound by far. The young Beoulve, knowing that Agrias was a soldier first and foremost, had done his best to give her a mission and a purpose. And, amongst the small band of misfits arrayed against the worst of humankind and demonkind alike, the holy knight had found herself a place in this strange new world that the War of the Lions was creating.

It was not an easy process, however. And one night, in a moment of mutual weakness, the two had desperately sought one another out.

In the weeks that followed, Agrias noticed that her clothes weren't fitting quite right and that her appetites had become quite strange.

This had forced the holy knight to leave the battlefield, lest a lucky blow kill their unborn child, but Agrias refused to be idle. She would still keep the watch, aid in healing the wounded, and drill her comrades. And, many of their companions were thrilled at the news of her pregnancy, despite the complications it presented. Alicia and Lavian would often talk to the baby, often enough that Ramza felt crowded out, and, when Agrias stood at the back of one of the companions to guide them through a slash or thrust, her student would jokingly claim that the baby's kicking was throwing them off.

The child, though little more than a bump on Agrias' once slender frame, had helped to remind them all that a future might yet lay beyond the unceasing bloodshed.

Judging from the screaming that rattled the door, however, Ramza suspected that his own future might involve acquiring a rather impressive collection of bruises once Agrias had given birth.

* * *

Agrias bit her lip, vainly trying to hold back a scream. She had been in labor for well over four hours, her entire body bathed in perspiration and every muscle in her body throbbing as though she'd fought several Lucavi demons simultaneously. And, her ordeal wasn't over yet. Having been wedded to the sword for so long, the notion that she might find herself embarking on a new journey into motherhood had seemed positively ludicrous. But, then again, so had Lucavi demons walking amongst mankind and Saint Ajora being revealed as a fraud. Which, needless to say, wasn't impossible at all. But, as another wave of pain fell over her, she found herself regretting having discounted the possibility and that her knightly training had left her so woefully unprepared. Yet, despite the pain, she felt something else, something far stronger. She felt a mingled happiness and terror, the wonderment of being a parent delicately balanced against the fear that she might fail her child as she had seemingly failed Ovelia. But then, the scales began to shift as she recalled how, for all the trials and tribulations they'd been through, the father of her child was still at her side, as were Rad Phillips, Lavian and Alicia Murry, who'd insisted on remaining with Agrias whom they loved like an older sister. And, so too were Beowulf Kadmus and his fiancé, the dragonkin Reis Dular. These two, amongst others, had joined Ramza's band as they'd embarked on an ever twisting road to discover the remaining holy stones. Reis, though quite strange with her affinity for dragons and so eerily perceptive, had been a godsend. When she'd learned of the holy knight's pregnancy, she'd insisted on remaining with Ramza and Agrias until after their baby was safely delivered. Also being learned in the healing arts and having helped other women in childbirth, Reis had been invaluable in plugging the copious gaps in Agrias' knowledge of childbearing. Alma had also been supportive of Agrias, and, though the cleric hadn't appreciated being upstaged by the dragonkin, she'd voiced the hope that Ramza and Agrias would have a long and happy life.

Yes, part of Agrias was truly happy to be having a child that, she hoped, would grow up in a world where atrocities like the War of the Lions only existed in stories of long ago. But, another part of her also wanted to strangle the baby's father for putting her through this painful ordeal.

Alma, whose pride was still stinging from having been regulated to a lesser role in bringing her nephew or niece into the world, had been kept busy nonetheless. In fact, she had found herself nearly as belabored as Agrias. As the second hour of labor had come and gone, she found her brow streaming and her vision beginning to blur. She had been assisting Reis as well as Lavian and Alicia, but she found the cloth she held being used to wipe away sweat from her brow as much as from Agrias'. Had it always been so hot in here? And, could Reis have been a bit overzealous with the herbs she'd employed to aid the holy knight's labor? The cleric had been feeling dizzy and faint, and she couldn't understand why Reis, Lavian, and Alicia seemed unaffected. Aside from their concern for Agrias, the other three women looked perfectly fine. Another oddity, she'd believed that she had gotten over Ramza's decision not to allow her to handle Agrias' delivery alone. Much though the cleric hated to admit it, the dragonkin was far more qualified, as she had been through this many times and knew exactly what to do to sooth many a mother in the throes of childbirth even though she had yet to bear any children herself. Yet, though Alma now felt relieved that Reis was placed in charge, for whatever Alma was suffering from would have been every bit as debilitating as her lack of experience, a strange feeling had nonetheless crested in her heart and refused to go away.

It was almost like...jealousy.

The Beoulve girl, almost embarrassed by such a thought, shook herself back to attention and brought up one shaking hand to mop Agrias' brow, silently wishing that this ordeal would end.

After another twenty minutes of difficult labor and nerve-wreaking anxiety for all those involved, Alma's unspoken wish was granted. With once last grunt from Agrias, there was a cheer from the ladies that was quickly drowned out by the cries of a newborn baby. Agrias, who looked as windblown as a castaway on Midnight's Deep, sagged against her pillow, an exhausted smile lighting her features. Reis gently took the newborn in her arms, smiled a broad beaming grin, and gazed down at the holy knight.

"Congratulations, Lady Agrias, it's a girl!"

Excited, Lavian and Alicia as well as Alma looked over Reis' shoulders to catch their first glimpse of the holy knight's newborn daughter. While the twins cooed over the child, Alma kneeled at Agrias' bedside to wipe her brow, all the while wondering at the strange hole that had somehow opened in her heart.

"How do you feel, Agrias?" she asked gently, painting on a smile that felt only half real.

The holy knight smiled. "I've had better days. But, I'm alright now. Can one of you go get Ramza, please?"

"Of course", Alma replied as she looked towards Alicia and gave her a nod. The excited young monk wasted no time as she ran out the door, nearly tearing it off its hinges as she raced into the next room where the baby's father was awaiting the joyous news.

Alma was almost amused when she saw that Ramza had nearly jumped out of his skin when the door to his room suddenly burst open. The Beoulve girl saw her brother look up from his seat on the sofa and then lock gazes glance with the excited monk, the expression of incredible joy on her face quickly finding a twin on his own.

"Congratulations, Ramza! Your child is born! And, it's a girl!"

Alma turned away and wept, wondering why her tears felt so joyless.

* * *

"How is she?" Ramza asked as he looked down at Agrias who, completely spent from the birth, had dropped off to sleep after spending a few wondrous moments with her daughter.

"She's exhausted, but she will be just fine," Reis answered as she handed the baby girl to her father. "All she needs just now is to rest, that's all.

"Aye," Beowulf agreed, clapping a hand to Ramza's shoulder. "Congratulations to you and Agrias. We're very happy for you both."

Ramza, his joy leaving him too tongue-tied to speak, simply smiled as he took his newborn daughter in his arms. "I can't thank you two enough for your support," he said.

"No, the honor is ours," Beowulf insisted. "Without you, I would have never been able to even find Reis, much less break the curse that had been placed upon her. And, lest we forget, you helped me to rescue her a second time from Celebrant Bremondt. I owe you a debt beyond payment and we are only too happy to do this in return for your generosity."

"That's right!" Reis agreed. "Anyway, have you decided on a name for your new daughter yet?"

In truth, Ramza had no idea. That he would become a father while on the run from church and state alike and battling Lucavi demons for the fate of the world wasn't exactly an eventuality he'd been prepared for and a name for his child was the last thing on his mind.

"I'm not sure… what do you think, Alma?" he asked, turning to his sister.

Alma, who still brushed at her eyes, seemed startled by the question. "Are you asking for my opinion? Why don't you ask Agrias when she wakes up? She is the baby's mother, after all."

"True…but it wouldn't hurt to have a suggestion from my little sister."

Alma hesitated for a moment as she probed her mind for name for her newborn niece. "Well, maybe we can name her after our mother?" she suggested.

Ramza raised an eyebrow "You mean 'Rachel'? Do you think Agrias will like it?"

The Beoulve girl rolled her eyes. "Well, why don't you wait for her to wake up and ask her? In any case, I need to get some rest. Agrias isn't the only one whose been run ragged by this ordeal."

True to his nature, Ramza looked quite sheepish when he realized that he'd completely overlooked his sister's state, as well as the others who'd assisted Agrias during her hours of labor. "I'm sorry, Alma," Ramza spluttered in apology. "Forgive me. I owe you a debt of gratitude as well. Please, get some rest and I'll talk to you again later."

Alma nodded, silently grateful for the reprieve, and had been halfway out of the room when a wave of dizziness washed over her. The image of doorway she'd been heading towards suddenly wavered and began to tilt from one side to the other. Her gait faltered and she started to stumble. Alma was dimly aware of Reis' voice asking "Sweetie, what's wrong?"

Alma did not answer. Even if she had known, her thoughts had become strangely scattered and distant. All she did know was that the world was suddenly turning dark, and not just because her vision was strangely failing. Somehow, though she could not explain it, the sight of Ramza and Agrias' child had caused some sort of chasm to yawn open in her heart.

And, from within, wafted billowing clouds of melancholy and regret.

The last thing she saw before her world went dark was her brother and friends rushing to her side.

* * *

"Alma?" she heard a distant voice call out "Are you awake? How are you feeling, dear?"

Alma groaned as she slowly opened her eyes and found herself in bed. Through eyes bleary with tears, she saw Reis leaning over her, gently wiping at her brow with a damp cloth.

"Reis, is that you?" she asked hoarsely as she tried to sit up, but the older woman gripped Alma's shoulders and gently pushed her back down onto the bed.

"Yes, Alma, it's me. You are still not well, so please do not try to move yet."

"What happened, how long have I been out?"

"A few hours. You passed out after you told your brother to wait until Agrias had woken up to see if she wanted to name the baby after your mother."

Alma stared at Reis and, when she spoke, she could not keep her befuddlement from her words. "Have you been looking after me this whole time?"

The older woman smiled and nodded and Alma could not help the feeling of guilt that curdled in her gut. Reis was a truly remarkable woman. In the past day, she'd helped Agrias through her labor and, barely a heartbeat later, she had taken on the burden of caring for Alma as well.

The Beoulve girl's early incredulity towards the woman now turned to mortification at her own foolish pride.

"I'm sorry, Reis," Alma said, though it nearly came out as a whimper. "I didn't mean to cause you trouble. I don't know what came over me…"

"You didn't?" the dragonkin asked as her smile grew wider. "Really, Alma? Even if that's true, I would have volunteered anyway. After all, you will also be needing my help soon."

The Beoulve girl had been feeling quite groggy after her episode, but Reis' words had roused her just as surely as a pail of icy water being tipped over her head.

"W-what do you mean?" she asked, her voice quavering so she barely understood her own words.

Her expression softening, Reis leaned over and placed a hand over her friend's belly. And, even before the dragonkin spoke, the Beoulve girl remembered with sudden dread how her dress had seemed a pinch too tight of late.

"Alma…," she asked gently, "Why didn't you tell us you were also with child? Especially me? Beowulf and I owe our happiness, and our very lives, to your brother. And, I also consider you as a friend as well. You know I will always be here for you when you need me."

Reis's words only came to Alma in bits and pieces, their meaning too great to grasp all at once. She shook her head frantically, as though the simple action could negate what she had just heard. "No, I'm not, I can't be!"

"Are you sure? Have you been experiencing nausea and an increase in appetite lately? Have you noticed your clothes getting a bit tighter, or your mood suddenly shifting? Did you miss your monthly cycle?"

Alma sagged against her pillow, the weight of the truth, and the irony therein, crashing down upon her all at once. There was only one person who could be the father.

The same man who'd abducted her from Orbonne Monastery on that night that seemed like a hundred years ago.

The same man she'd tried to seduce in order to win her freedom, only for the tables to turn as she fell in love with him instead.

The same man who had pledged to take her as his wife, but had died before they could wed...yet not before leaving a part of himself with her before their tragic parting.

"Well, yes," Alma admitted, wondering how much the perceptive dragonkin had gleaned from her long silence. "But, I thought that I'd only missed my cycle because of the hard travel we'd had after leaving Murond. I'm not used to these long marches like Ramza and the rest of you."

"I see… well, you thought wrong, Miss Beoulve. If you don't mind my asking, have you been… intimate with anyone in the last few months?"

Alma felt her face turning red at her friend's questions. But, after everything Reis had done for her, she simply could not bring herself to lie to the older woman.

"Well…yes," she answered shyly, lowering her head as if too embarrassed to look Reis in the eyes.

How small the words sounded when weighed against the truth. Had that been why the joy she should have felt at her niece's birth had been so tarnished? Because she had been aware, without truly realizing it, of this cruel joke fate had played on her? Already adrift, with her family largely gone and her home forever denied her, she now had the knowledge that her child, the one she was supposed to raise alongside Izlude, would grow up without a father.

As if nearly having her own soul evicted so that a demon could occupy her body hadn't been enough.

More tears came, and Alma found herself wondering if she would ever have enough tears for this. Reis put her arms around the weeping cleric and drew her close, letting Alma cry unabashedly into her shoulder.

"The father must've been someone you cared deeply for," Reis observed. "May I ask who he is?"

"Um… would it be alright if I tell you another time?" Alma asked in a voice that was very young and very small.

Reis sighed, but nodded understandingly. "Very well, I understand if you do not wish to speak of it now. Just try and get some rest. And, don't worry about a thing. You still have people who care about you, and I don't doubt for a minute that they'd care for your child as well."

Whatever Alma might have said in reply could not get past the lump in her throat as she recalled the one person she most wanted to talk to...and who was now lost to her forever.

"In the meantime," Reis went on. "I will be awake a while longer. So, if you need anything, please don't hesitate to ask."

Alma managed what she hoped was a credible imitation of a smile, feeling some small relief that her friend decided not to press the issue further. "I will, Reis. And thank you, for everything you've done for me and my brother."

"No problem, dear. I'll be taking my leave now. Rest well, Alma."

"You too. Good night, Reis."

* * *

Unfortunately, sleep proved elusive for Alma after her caretaker left. Even after turning the notion over in her mind for what felt like days, the revelation that she too, was with child still stabbed at her heart. Though, she supposed, she shouldn't have been surprised. Alma knew the possibility of getting pregnant when she and Izlude became involved, but she had been so desperately torn between her love for him and her fear for her brother that whatever inner voice might have given warning had been drowned out. If Izlude had lived, she still would have been alone and with a baby on the way, as his duties would have taken him from her side from time to time. But, Alma believed she nonetheless would have been so happy, knowing that the father of her child still lived and still loved her. Now, by contrast, she felt lonelier and weaker than she had while in Hashmalum's captivity, even though she was surrounded by friends who loved and cared about her, including her favorite brother.

Realizing that sleep would not find her this evening, Alma sighed and rose from her bed. She was still upset, frustrated, and more than a bit frightened of what she'd learned and hoped that a walk in the brisk night air might help to clear her mind. She had to think long and hard about her future, and that of her child. And, if Reis had guessed at her pregnancy so easily, Alma feared she didn't have much time to decide what she was going to do next. Pulling a light cloak over her nightgown, Alma put on her shoes and made her way outside. Their current domicile, a country inn which had been booked under one of Ramza's numerous aliases, had a small but lovely courtyard that sprung up amidst the square enclosure of rooms, kitchens, and storerooms that rose around it. As she passed into the garden, wending her way along the cobblestone path and past towering hedges dotted with flowers, Alma turned her gaze towards the starry night sky and the beautiful moon. Yet, the radiant glow she'd so adored as a child only caused still more pangs of sadness as memories assailed her. She remembered how, during her "captivity", she and the knight blade would take walks like this around the Riovanes Castle grounds and enjoy their evenings together, lost in each other's eyes before she had to be returned to her room.

 _Why?!_ Alma asked herself as her eyes brimmed with tears. _Why did you have to die?!_

Alma found the onrush of tears to be unstoppable as she remembered the horrible fate that had befallen her love, and the realization that he would never see the child that was growing in her belly.

"Alma? Are you all right?" a voice rang out, causing the Beoulve girl to stiffen.

Frantically dapping at her eyes, Alma spun around to find her brother, Ramza. He stood not too far behind her, almost as though he had been watching her in silence for the past few moments.

"I-I'm fine!" she insisted, but knew she sounded just the opposite. "Why do you ask? And, how long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough," her brother answered, a rare hint of firmness entering his tone. "Is it true what Reis said? Are you with child, Alma?"

Alma was silent for a long moment before answering, torn as she was between her desperate wish to confess all and the fear that she'd only further burden her brother who had already been through so much.

Ultimately, it was the child in her belly that decided the matter.

"Yes…I have been for the last three months," she confessed, her words ending in a sob. "I just didn't realize until Lady Reis told me."

Ramza was silent for a moment as he took this in. And, despite the effects of early motherhood on her thinking, Alma could sense her brother's train of thought. Altima, the High Seraph, would have been all but invincible if she had been resurrected at full strength, but the same, ironic cruel twist of fate that had scarred Alma had also denied Altima her victory. In order for the High Seraph to be resurrected at the height of her profane power, the sacrifice of a virgin maid was required. And, by the time Hashmalum had attempted to sacrifice Alma, she was no longer a virgin, having coupled with Izlude only weeks earlier. Fortunately for her, the Lucavi demon was unaware of that, otherwise, he would have unhesitatingly disposed of her and searched for another sacrifice. If not for this one fluke, Ramza and the others would have stood no chance against Altima. But, both survivors of the House Beoulve thought it best to leave this revelation unspoken.

"I see…" Ramza said simply.

"Are you upset with me?" Alma asked after a long pause.

Under normal circumstances, Ramza was forced to admit that he would have been very disappointed to hear of such a thing. But, the times had changed. And, having just fathered a child out of wedlock himself, he knew he was no position to lecture his little sister about chastity.

"No…," he answered, causing Alma to sag from mingled relief and exhaustion. "I understand, and I'm very happy for you…"

His words trailed off for a moment, as though he were carefully weighing his next words. Ultimately, he asked "Izlude is the father, isn't he?"

"Yes…," Alma whispered, easing herself onto a stone bench. "But, he was nothing like the others. He was never possessed by the Lucavi, he even tried to save me from Hashmalum. I...I loved him, Ramza."

Ramza joined her on the bench and, as Reis had done before, allowed Alma to sob into his shoulder for a long moment. Yet, once her tears were spent, the Beoulve girl felt as though the bleeding at her heart had been staunched. The wound was still there, it probably would remain until the day she died. But, knowing that the same brother who'd always shown her patience, understanding, and love was still at her side, as were his friends, had helped to ease the pain.

"He sounds like he was a good man," Ramza observed, speaking with the voice of someone who knew regret only too well. "I wish I'd had the chance to know him. But, Alma, you need not worry about a thing. I will protect your child every bit as much as my own. And, I'm sure the others will agree with me."

"Thank you, Ramza," Alma gushed, nearly overwhelmed by gratitude.

"You're welcome. Well, we'll have a lot to discuss. But, for now, please come back inside before you catch cold."

Nodding, Alma rose and headed back to her room, the ghost of a genuine smile dawning on her face at last.

"One more thing, though," Ramza called out, moving alongside Alma and placing one hand on her stomach. "Congratulations, Alma."

* * *

As has been noted many times, and by many different people, Ramza was truly a study in contradictions.

He had the body of a boy, a face evocative of one younger still, and yet the heart of a man.

He was a fierce warrior who hated fighting and who never took a life without wishing he hadn't needed to do so.

He was an outstanding commander who wished day and night that one of his more seasoned companions would take up the mantle of leadership.

He had seen the depredations people were capable of inflicting upon one another, and yet he always held true to the belief that many good people yet walked the earth.

He had lost his place as heir to one of the greatest fortunes in Ivalice, and yet nonetheless counted himself wealthy beyond measure by virtue of the friends he had and the love he'd found.

"You plan on letting her meet me before either of us goes gray?" a woman's voice snapped him from his reverie.

Ramza, looking for all the world like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, turned sheepishly to face Agrias. The holy knight, though still exhausted from birthing the daughter Ramza now cradled in his arms, looked no less fearsome as she lay abed with her nightgown askew and her flaxen tresses disheveled.

"Sorry about that, Agrias," the young Beoulve said sheepishly, turning back to the newly dubbed Rachel. "She's just... so hard to let go of."

"Well, you'd better get used to it. Sooner or later, she'll want to be fed. And, I rather doubt she'd find much of a meal under _your_ shirt."

Blushing at the implication, Ramza gently eased the tiny girl into the holy knight's arms. Considering that Agrias had never handled, much less reared a child, the young Beoulve was surprised to see her quickly shift her grip to cradle the baby's head and gently rock her back and forth with an almost hypnotic gentility. Watching the pair, Ramza wondered, not for the first time, how things had turned out as they had.

They were both fugitives, living off the - admittedly, considerable - war chest they'd amassed during the conflict, and they now had the added complication of a child to raise in whatever life in exile they'd manage to eke out for themselves. And, that was leaving aside the revelation of Alma's own pregnancy by the late Izlude Tingel.

Yet, for all that, the only thing Ramza could think about was how innocent Rachel looked as she was being rocked back and forth in Agrias' arms, and how the holy knight's normally hard features softened so as she gazed adoringly at their child.

"I would've thought she'd be much bigger," Agrias opined after Rachel had nodded off. "Especially considering how fat I was near the end."

"You weren't fat, you were glowing," Ramza contradicted reflexively, remembering some rather violent mood swings that characterized the time Agrias had been unable to see her feet for nearly three months.

"Apparently, you have a lot to learn about women. By the time I was four months along, I felt as wide as a walrus. And, I probably looked ridiculous trying to wear my armor in such a state."

Considering it was he who had put Agrias in "such a state", Ramza could offer only a nervous laugh in reply. Luckily, the holy knight seemed to have been engaged in a rare bout of humor, for she gave a smile and motioned for him to move closer. The young Beoulve carefully seated himself at her side, both new parents well and truly entranced by the tiny treasure Agrias held in her sword callused hands.

And, in that moment, Ramza forgot his troubles. Or, perhaps, it would be nearer the truth to say that he refused to be cowed by those troubles. Whatever else happened, the battle he and his companions waged against demons and corrupt humans had ended. He had, he hoped, done honor to his father's memory and all that remained was to see that the specter of war, which had cost Ramza and company so much, never touched either his little girl or his unborn nephew or niece.

He would not see another Teta.

His introspection came to an end when the door creaked open to reveal Rad, the dark knight gesturing for Ramza to approach. Telling Agrias to try and get some rest, the young Beoulve left the room to confer with the former mercenary.

"What is it, Rad?" Ramza asked, and Rad handed him a letter.

"This arrived at the front counter an hour ago, Ramza," Rad said, unmistakable wariness in his voice. "When the innkeeper gave it to me, he said the guy who handed it in said that it was from the king. He seems to know you're still alive and well, even knew which alias you were using."

Ramza heaved a heavy sigh, wearier and saddened than panicked by this news. Given Delita's resourcefulness, not to mention that he now commanded the resources of an entire kingdom, it was only a matter of time before the newly crowned king tracked down his former friend. The young Beoulve had hoped that would happen after plans had been drawn up for the remaining companions to disappear into the shadows, but it seemed the same luck that had seen him through Murond Death City had finally run out.

A chill rippled at his heart as fears for Agrias, Rachel, Alma, and her child slithered up his spine and spread icy tendrils through his mind. Would they be spared? Or, would the ruthlessly pragmatic Delita decide that, where his duplicitous legacy was concerned, the only good witness was a dead one?

Remembering the callous disregard for life Delita had shown when he'd executed Zalmo, not to mention what Ramza suspected was the truth behind the tale of Goltana and Orlandu killing each other, he feared the latter was all too likely.

"I don't like the sound of this," Ramza admitted. "But, I think I ought to see what he wants."

"Are you nuts?!" Rad blurted, but quickly dropped his voice to an urgent whisper. "He'll likely add your head to his collection, so that he can put the church in his debt and consolidate his power."

"You might be right. But, if it's me he wants, I'm willing to make that sacrifice. Just in case, I want you and the others to pack up and be ready to ride. If I'm not back by morning, then ride off without me."

Rad had been about to object, but Ramza silenced him with an upturned hand.

"Listen to me," he said with a rare hint of firmness in his tone. "If something happens to me, I need you and the others to take care of Agrias, Rachel, Alma, and her baby. I'm not going over there to sign my own death warrant."

"If you go to see Delita, that's exactly what you'll be doing."

"Maybe. But, if it buys the people I care for the time they need to make their escape, I'm willing to do it."

Here, Ramza paused as an ironic grin crossed his features.

"I can't explain it," he admitted. "But, seeing Rachel, hearing her little heart beating against my chest...there's nothing I won't do for her, nothing I wouldn't risk. And, I want to make sure that she has the long and happy life that all of us gave up when we decided to fight the Lucavi."

Rad opened his mouth, but whatever he'd been about to say died on his lips and he gave a sad nod.

"Well, Rachel still needs a father," he noted, laying a hand on Ramza's shoulder. "So, don't think you can afford to die for another, say, fifty years or so."

Ramza chuckled and placed his own hand on Rad's shoulder, giving it a comradely squeeze.

"I'll do my best. Thank you, Rad. Now, please go and do as I've said. If I can, I'll circle back to catch up with you."

"You'd better."

After his friend left, Ramza broke the seal on the envelope and removed the sheet of parchment that lay within. Even before unfolding the letter, he was already certain of who it was from. And, sure enough, the bold strokes of Delita's handwriting confirmed his suspicions. The letter was brief but direct and straight to the point; the new king wanted Ramza to meet him at the nearby cemetery at midnight. The letter had instructed Ramza to come alone and promised that Delita would do the same. And, inevitably, the letter also warned that it would not be wise to refuse. As he was about to leave the inn, Rad and Beowulf, who had been having a conversation in the lobby, spotted him. The former Knight Templar, who must have been told about Ramza's hastily drawn plan in case the meeting went ill, raced over and asked where he was going.

"To meet with a friend," Ramza said simply, not even breaking stride.

Knowing all too well who this 'friend' was, Beowulf insisted on accompanying him. Rad, claiming he'd already disseminated the young Beoulve's orders, quickly voiced his agreement. Sensing that time was too precious to waste arguing, Ramza agreed on the condition that they do not tell Agrias and the others, unless their band was forced to flee the inn, and that they kept themselves out of Delita's sight.

A short ride on his chocobo brought the young Beoulve to the cemetery where he awaited the arrival of the new king amidst the eerie reflections the moonlight cast on the gravestones. Delita's choice of meeting place, and the irony therein, was not lost on Ramza, and he surreptitiously loosened his sword in case it came to a fight. He fervently hoped that Delita would not make a fight of it, regardless of his plans for this meeting, but the young Beoulve could not keep a grim presentiment from taking root in his mind.

Yet, remembering Rachel's slumbering face was enough to firm his resolve and steady his hand.

Whatever happened to him tonight wouldn't matter, so long as Agrias and Rachel remained safe.

The sound of leaves rustling drew his gaze down the path and, sure enough Delita emerged from the shadows. Lowborn he might have been, but one would never have guessed that from his expression of calm self-assurance, the poise and grounded grace by which he moved in his resplendent golden armor and blood red robes, and how those royal trappings somehow seemed to belong there.

Delita was not the same young man who had followed Ramza to Fort Ziekden in their failed attempt to save Teta from the Corpse Brigade.

But, then again, neither was Ramza.

Both men had emerged from that tragedy, much as the phoenix rose towards the sun, but each man had been transformed very differently.

Ramza had become a pariah, sought after and hated for adhering to a moral code that Ivalice had abandoned, while Delita had become a master of manipulating history itself from the shadows.

Now, they stood face to face, each beholding a stranger.

Ramza's introspection was broken when, to his surprise, he saw that Delita was true to his word. The newly crowned king had met him alone as well, with not a single bodyguard in sight.

"You're alone," Ramza said, barely able to force the words past the sudden lump in his throat as he watched his old friend dismount from his chocobo and contemplated what scheme this might presage.

Delita seemed to catch his thought, for he raised his arms in what Ramza supposed was meant to be a conciliatory gesture. "Yes. And, as you can see, I am unarmed as well. You wouldn't attack an unarmed man, would you?"

Knowing that Delita's sharp wits were deadlier than any sword, Ramza was far from assured by these words.

"No… not unless I was threatened," he replied, accentuating the warning in his words. "What do you want, Delita?"

"To make you an offer…"

"An offer? What could you possibly have that I would want?"

The new king stared at him incredulously, almost as though the question had offended him. "Are you seriously asking me that? Where do you intend to go after you leave here? You are still a wanted man, and even I am not strong enough to protect you, given your...penchant for making enemies."

Ramza's eyes narrowed dangerously, though Delita didn't so much as even blink.

"We both know I could not have stood idly by with...," he trailed off, catching himself before revealing the one aspect of the War of the Lions that Delita was unlikely to be aware of. "With everything that was happening, how could I have done nothing?"

Much to his surprise, Delita gave a small smile. "That's one thing I've always admired about you. You have the courage of your convictions, even when it has...unhappy results. Still, the fact remains that your prospects are bleak. The death of the High Confessor didn't wipe away your alleged crimes. If anything, it added to them."

"You need not concern yourself with that. It's not your problem."

With that, the young Beoulve turned and began to walk away. Some part of him supposed he ought to consider himself lucky that Delita had made no attempt to capture the fugitive Beoulve, but that voice was drowned out by the disappointment Ramza felt when he'd seen only the gleam of a calculating mind in Delita's eyes, as though this meeting had been no more than one further move in some grand game.

If Ramza hadn't believed it before, he did now. The Delita who had been Ramza's friend, his brother in ties that ran deeper than blood, no longer existed.

"Wait, Ramza, please hear me out!" Delita entreated, almost desperately.

Despite himself, the young Beoulve did halt. Why he did so, he could not say, however. Perhaps the strange note of desperation in Delita's tone had piqued his curiosity. Maybe concern for what remained of his family, and the most innocent of the Beoulve line, compelled him to seize upon any chance to keep them safe, no matter how small or far-fetched.

Or, could it have been that yet enduring belief that, for all the evils people were capable of, there were still some in the world who were capable of good...

...and, like some of Ramza's allies who had once been enemies, they chose to reveal themselves at the strangest time.

He did not know, but some inner voice told him to turn nonetheless.

"What is it?" he asked, still palming the hilt of his sword.

"You've lived the last seven years of your life on the run," Delita pointed out, ending his sentence with a careless shrug. "Do you really want to keep doing so for the rest of your life?"

"Once I leave Ivalice, I won't have to anymore."

"Are you sure that's what you really want, Ramza? And, more to the point, where would you go? Ordalia? They hate Ivalicians with a vengeance and, much like the church, they would offer you only the pretense of a trial before killing you. Romanda might be a better choice, if only for a time. Should they learn of your identity, I imagine they would offer your extradition in exchange for, shall we say, certain trade concessions? What's more, even if you carve out a niche for yourself in a foreign land, are you willing to live out your life there as an exile? To never again to set foot on the land of your birth? The land your father died to protect? The land that, for all intents and purposes, _you_ died to protect?"

Ramza was silent for a long moment, pondering his former friend's words. This conversation had dredged up memories of Delita relaying to Ramza, at that time the would-be rescuer of Princess Ovelia, that the young Beoulve had no friends to whom he could turn, as either faction would kill him. And, with a dread sense of déjà vu, Ramza realized that, as had been the case then, Delita was right. Though Ivalice had done him few favors since his father's death, it was still his home and the land he had fought to save from the depredations of man and demon alike. Ramza knew his deeds would garner no acknowledgement, let alone thanks, but he still hadn't wanted to quit the land of his birth.

He had wanted to settle in this land, away from prying eyes, and raise his daughter alongside Agrias. But, with a price on his head, he knew that he had little choice but to flee, for his family's sake as well as his own.

"What about Agrias and your child?" Delita interjected, following Ramza's train of thought with eerie precision. "And your little sister? Is the life of a fugitive what you want for them?"

Ramza gritted his teeth as he glared at his friend. Of course, Delita would learn of his new daughter. As Ramza had come to learn, the young king was cunning and had eyes and ears in many places. By this point, he would have thought that nothing Delita did could surprise him, but he never thought the new king would go so far as to exploit his love for Agrias, their child, and his younger sister.

Yet, unscrupulous though Delita was, Ramza couldn't find a hole in the man's argument. If he'd had only his own life to consider, Ramza would have willingly consigned himself to living the rest of his life on the run and eking out such a life as he could on foreign shores. But, his life was no longer his alone. Indeed, it hadn't been since he'd fallen in love with Agrias and resolved himself to rescue Alma. Nearly a decade ago, he chose to run away from his home and his brothers after the tragedy at Fort Ziekden in the vain hope that he could walk away from the pain of betrayal and, what he believed, was the death of his closest friend. Now, however, Ramza had his love and his child, as well as his sister and her child, to think about- he could not afford to think only of himself.

"What do you propose then, _Your Majesty?_ " he asked, making no effort to conceal the venom in his words.

"What if I told you I could make it possible for you to return to Ivalice and live in peace?" Delita asked, an earnest expression on his features. "That I could give you and those you hold dear a new life?"

"And what do you ask in return, Delita? I very much doubt you are willing to help me simply out of the goodness of your heart. Back in Zeltennia, you told me that you would not think twice of killing me should the hour came, or did I hear you wrong?"

Delita hesitated for a moment, looking almost pained at his former friend's harsh words, and then sighed. "You did not," he admitted. "It was a time of war, and I have said and done much that I wish I hadn't. Yet, none has pained me as much as parting ways with you. I know you have no reason to believe me when I say this, but I still consider you my friend. In all the time since we've found each other again, I've never told you. And for that, I apologize. I may not be able to clear your name just yet, but I can still pardon your comrades so that they can live out their lives peacefully without fear of being hunted by the church."

"How can you do that?"

"You'd be surprised just how much I'm privy to these days. But, that is a tale for another time. The point is that the balance of power in Ivalice has shifted in my favor. Much of that, I owe to your assistance, however unwitting. And now, I want to help you."

Here, Delita paused and turned his gaze towards the heavens. He raised one hand, from which Ramza spied Teta's pendent glinting in the moon's rays.

"Teta would have wanted me to. Please, think about what I've said, Ramza."

Once more, Ramza was silent. His rational side told him that he should refuse Delita, that his former friend was a master of manipulation and deceit, and that this was surely an elaborate trap to ensnare the only people privy to the truth of his rise to power. And, that was certainly possible, as Delita had beguiled many into trusting him only to discard them when their usefulness had ended. And yet, deep down, another part of him still wanted to believe in his old friend despite everything that had happened between them. A glimmer of hope - guarded and distant, but a glimmer of hope nonetheless - had flared to life in his mind. Delita had shown that he could be truthful when it suited him. What's more, while they had embarked upon very different courses to bring peace to Ivalice, he and Delita had never truly been enemies, as Delita had found one excuse after another to spare Ramza's life and had even assisted him several times throughout his journey.

Ramza knew things would not, and could not, be as they had been before that tragic day at Fort Ziekden.

He and Delita had embarked on journeys too far removed for their paths to ever converge again.

Yet, as different as the two were now, could they nonetheless reach an accord?

Weighed against such wonders and horrors that Ramza had seen in his long journey, from the holy stones breathing life back into Malak's lungs to the transformation of men into demons, this seemed all too possible.

And, as the notion began to take root in Ramza's mind, it became all the more tantalizing. If Delita was being truthful - admittedly, a big "if" - it would mean that Ramza's companions would be free of further reprisals from the church. And, even if Delita could not wipe away Ramza's alleged crimes, the chance that the young Beoulve could raise his daughter, knowing that she was safe, might very well be within reach.

If offering Delita the benefit of the doubt could make that happen, then he owed it to them to try.

Ramza faced Delita once more. The newly crowned king's ever-present calculating expression still made him wary, but it no longer seemed quite as sinister as before.

"Very well…," he said at last, a note of relief in his tone. "I'm willing to see if you mean what you say. Please, don't make me regret it."

"I won't….," Delita affirmed, and Ramza was struck by how his former friend's shoulders sagged in relief at these words. "And, thank you, Ramza."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Ok, our brief interlude with Ramza and company will end here and we will be shifting the scene back to our knight blade, Izlude ^^ Once again, I would like to thank my co-writer and editor Falchion1984 for making this sequel possible and please review as we would love to hear your opinions on our fic ;)


	6. A New Journey Has Begun

_Darkness._

_All about Izlude was darkness, an ebony gloom that spanned from one horizon to the other._

_He whirled, frantically seeking some point of light to guide him to safety, yet all he saw was the same impenetrable shadows that rose on all sides. He called out for help, yet the only reply was the forlorn echoes of his own voice._

_Desperate, but aimless, he could only stumble along blindly, seeking the faint hope of escape._

_He wandered on, for how long he could not say. Days? Months? Years?_

_Centuries?_

_He had no idea. Indeed, it was all he could do to hold back a rising tide of panic and keep putting one foot in front of the other._

_Then, to his amazement, the darkness was dispelled in a burst of sudden radiance._

_And, when he blinked away enough lingering stars to see, what he saw froze his blood._

_It was Alma...and yet, it was not._

_She was taller than his love - more than twice her height, in fact - and, rather than the delicate femininity he recalled during their time together, she had the toned form of a warrior. What's more, whereas Alma couldn't bring herself to stab her onetime captor in his sleep, this being positively radiated the menacing aura of one who reveled in bloody work. She didn't dress like Alma either. Rather than the simple but elegant gown of an aristocratic school, this being wore a skin tight outfit of crimson leather that accentuated her every curve, as well as a pair of knee high boots, a sheathed long sword strapped to each._

_What's more, she had wings._

_Yet, though these looked eerily similar to those feathered wings of the angels which figured prominently in the gospel of the Church of Glabados, these wings did not invoke images of godly souls being carried off to paradise._

_Instead, the sight of them caused Izlude to recoil, suddenly in fear for his very soul._

_Perhaps it was the almost blade-like appearance of the feathers. Maybe it was the wings' almost sensual undulations, which could almost make one forget how sinister this being looked._

_Or, maybe it was how the wings shed red liquid, almost like blood._

_Yet, for all that, there was no mistaking her face. It was set in a harsher expression that Alma's, yet the features he knew so well were all there._

_Yet, when her blue eyes met Izlude's green orbs, there was no recognition._

_"Ah," she cooed, speaking with his love's voice, almost sounding pleased. "Another offering to the High Seraph. Hasmalum's meager efforts have left me rather...peckish."_

_He could feel his heart drop into his stomach._

_This had been Hashmalum's foul work?_

_The Lucavi demon who wore his father's flesh had kept Alma alive so that she could be turned into one of their foul number?!_

_Izlude was too horrorstricken to speak, his eyes stinging as the weight of this revelation fell upon him like a hammer. He felt it knock the breath from his lungs and jolt his heart as he saw everything he had struggled for, everything he had ventured back from the realm of the dead for, crumble before his eyes._

_Anguish choked away his voice, but another rang out._

_"Your reign of terror is over!"_

_He whirled to see a young man, one that both he and the demoness knew very well indeed._

_"Why, if it isn't my big brother," the High Seraph cooed, accentuating her words with a giggle that stabbed at Izlude's heart. "Once more coming to chase away the shadows and do battle with the monsters under my bed. You do remember that, don't you brother?"_

_When Ramza replied, he could hear in his voice the longing for those simpler times...and the grief for what he had to do._

_"That was a long time ago," he intoned sadly._

_And, indeed, when Ramza stood full in view, it was clear that he was no longer a boy. He stood tall and straight, clad in resplendent armor emblazoned a crest the likes of which had never been seen in the fractured land over which man and demon waged war._

_The white lion of Gallione's Hokuten, The black lion of Zeltennia's Nanten, Lionel's gryphon, Favoham's wyvern, the gorgon's head framed by a shield of Limberry's Aegis Knights, and the crown over swords emblem of the Lionsguard._

_This young man, an outcast amongst the very people he nonetheless stepped forth to protect, wore the raiment of a champion of Ivalice, as though all the wanting and scattered strength of that troubled realm had coalesced into this one man in a final desperate gamble for survival._

_And, he looked the part of one who could bear such a weighty mantle._

_Whereas, back in Riovanes, Ramza had seemed as though one tottering on the threshold between boyhood and manhood, he was now every inch the knight he was born to be. He strode forth like a colossus, he gait measured and even, and a magnificent sword in one fist._

_He gazed at the demon who had been his sister with regret, but without fear._

_"Oh, come now," the High Seraph said in an almost admonishing tone. "You wouldn't hurt me, would you? Not your little sister."_

_As if to accentuate this terrible truth, the High Seraph murmured an arcane phrase, and some of her demonic features melted away..._

_...but, only some._

_She seemed to shrink until her head could've been safely tucked under Ramza's chin, which was surely another strike aimed at damaging the champion of Ivalice's resolve. Yet, despite the ploy, his expression remained unchanged. The High Seraph, who had once been Alma, still had her wings, which she folded over herself as her leather garb evaporated into crimson fog, leaving her as naked as the day she'd been born._

_Or, perhaps, the night she'd offered up her maidenhood and Izlude chose to take it._

_That night came to him again, but this time leaving a bitter taste in his mouth as he recalled how happy they had been and how tragically short their bliss had proven. Through misting eyes, he saw the harshness of her expression easing and, for a terrible moment, Izlude could almost believe that he beheld the same young woman he'd pledged his heart to._

_Almost._

_Though she stood before them, as naked as she'd been when she and Izlude had made love, her wings strategically folded to protect her modesty, the very air around her still hummed with malice._

_"You wouldn't harm me, would you?" she asked, her lower lip trembling._

_Ramza heaved a heavy sigh, and Izlude feared he already knew the answer._

_"My sister would rather die than live as your slave, High Seraph," he declared._

_Izlude's earlier panic seized him once again, rising in a tide that threatened to engulf him. He had come to save Alma, but was that even possible with her having been subverted by the Lucavi?_

_Yet, even if he knew how to purge the demonic influence from his love, how could he stand against Ramza when the young Beoulve had beaten him before and was now clearly more powerful than ever?_

_Before an answer could come to him, Ramza's blade was already angled for the kill._

_Izlude, desperation taking over, reached for his own blade only to realize that it wasn't there._

_And, he could only watch in horror as Ramza buried his blade deep in Alma's chest, both men screaming in anguish at the sight of the Beoulve girl slumping to the floor in a pool of crimson._

* * *

"Young man, calm down!" a voice from somewhere called out. "Wake up, blast it!"

It is a truism in Ivalice that, when words failed, as they often did of late, violence quickly became the tool of choice. And, such was the case when Izlude felt a large, hard object strike him across the face.

"AHHHH!" he screamed, bolting upright so quickly that his would-be assailant leapt backwards.

Though "assailant" might have been something of a strong word. As the world came back into focus, Izlude saw an elderly man standing across from him, his palms held up in a calming gesture. Elderly the man might be, but age had done little to weaken his sinewy frame and brawny hands, the latter of which had the knight blade massaging a throbbing cheek.

"Who are you?" Izlude asked warily. "Where am I? What happened?"

"One thing at a time, young man," the old man said, cautiously approaching the knight blade. "You've just woken up, I don't want to overwhelm you. To answer your first question, my name is Doug Frederick and you are in my home in Kohlingen Village."

"Kohlingen Village? I've never heard of it."

"Yes, I hear that quite a lot. This village was established only recently. People displaced by the war had begun to flock here when the flood from Fort Besselt receded, hoping that the soil would be revitalized by the water. I was sowing my fields when I spied your faithful chocobo in the distance. We could always use another animal to pull our plows, so I decided to see if I could catch the bird. She bolted away from me before I got near her. But then, imagine my surprise when I saw her again the next day, dragging you behind her. She must have dragged you from the water to dry land and been looking for someone to help you."

Upon hearing this, Izlude could only shake his head in amazement. He wasn't overly surprised at Nelly's strength and loyalty, for she had demonstrated it time and again. But, given the poverty and chaos that the War of the Lions had sown, he was truly astonished that there was help for Nelly to have found. How easily he could've instead been discovered by someone who would've stripped off his armor for a few coins and left him for the crows. Murmuring a prayer of thanks, Izlude gingerly rose and took in his surroundings. His host, being a farmer, had a humble, but well-kept abode. The house was sparsely filled, its few furnishings being modest and well worn. However, the abode was snug and neat, and a spinning wheel in one corner suggested that a woman, likely Doug's wife or daughter, also called this place home.

"And, you've been looking after me ever since?" Izlude asked in amazement, distantly noticing that he once more spoke with Damien's Yardow accent. "How's Nelly, is she alright?"

"You mean your chocobo?" Doug asked, giving a reassuring nod. "Yes, she's doing just fine. She's been roaming the nearby pastures by day and sleeping in the stables with my other chocobos by night. Both of you were very lucky to have survived the flood. Many others weren't so fortunate, including the late queen."

Izlude was startled. "You mean Queen Ruvelia? What happened to her?"

"Well, much of that story is only rumor, mind you. As you may know, when her involvement in the plot to assassinate Princess Ovelia was discovered, she was imprisoned in Fort Besselet. In fact, one of the goals of the Hokuten's offensive there was to free her. But, during the battle, she vanished from her cell. Then, not long ago, her lifeless body was found washed up near Araguay Woods, along with several other knights who had gone missing from the field. By the look of it, she managed to bribe one of the guards into freeing her. But, it turns out that the queen's timing couldn't have been worse. As soon as she got outside, someone opened the sluice and she was caught up in the raging waters and swept away. Had the queen remained in her cell, she might very well have survived the flood."

Here, Doug paused for a moment and leaned in close to Izlude, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

"I know this isn't exactly a becoming sentiment, but not many were aggrieved at her passing."

Unbecoming the sentiment might have been, but Izlude could not blame the old farmer. Ruvelia was a spiteful and vicious woman. Her husband, the late King Omdoria, had been an unfit ruler, as weak in will as he was in constitution. This had allowed the manipulative queen free reign to weave a vast web of information and intrigue...and to make sure that any threat to her position fell prey to her spider's venom. Rumors yet persisted that she'd had her own mother-in-law poisoned after the queen-mother had become overly critical of Ruvelia's heavy handed policies. However, when the queen sought to add Princess Ovelia to her list of fallen foes and thus neutralize both the young princess and Goltana, Delita had turned the tables by foiling and unmasking the plot. Shortly thereafter, Ruvelia was taken by the Nanten and consigned to Fort Besselat's dungeons.

Izlude doubted he'd be shedding many tears over her death, but, having nearly shared her fate, he found himself thinking that the executioner's blade might've been a kinder end to the former queen.

"To my knowledge," Doug continued, shaking the knight blade back to attention, "no one devoured by those waters has lived to tell the tale. But, you and your Nelly came away hale and whole. It's nothing short of a miracle."

Izlude was silent as he took in these words...and how Doug had unwittingly struck upon the truth of the matter. The fact that he and Nelly had survived the flood, especially when so many others did not, could only be attributed to the power of the holy stone. The same jewel that could evict men's very souls and turn them into demons had also restored his life and his precious eyesight, as well as disguised his face and voice so that his enemies would not discover that he yet walked the land of the living. Without its protection, both he and Nelly would have surely drowned. And, as if the gifts it had already heaped upon him hadn't been enough, Izlude could feel the reassuring bulk of the stone in his pocket, suggesting that Doug had chosen only to remove Izlude's armor rather than changing his clothes completely.

Just as surely as the stone could chose its hosts and bearers, it would hide itself from others.

This wonderment led to still more questions about the stone. Ramza and the shades of Izlude's parents had said that the stones' powers were given shape and purpose, for good or evil, by the person who used them. That seemed to suggest that the stones had something resembling a mind and a will, perhaps even a heart.

Has the stone chosen to save Izlude's life and to prevent Doug from finding it because it wanted him to succeed, and chose those actions as the best means to achieve that goal?

Izlude did not know. And, in truth, he was hesitant to think it over. After all, having seen what else the holy stones could do, he feared to probe the riddle of what might happen if the stone chose to do something less-than-benign.

"I see...," he said quietly, purposefully adding a groggy slur to his voice to deflect any questions about his long silence. "Have you been looking after me and Nelly this whole time? If so, I owe you a debt of gratitude."

The old man smiled. "Think nothing of it, young man. It's not in my nature to just leave someone in need when it lies in my power to render aid. What's your name, son?"

"Iz-…," The knight blade caught himself as soon as he realized his near miss. This was the first time he had spoken to anyone since he left behind his true identity at the tomb that was now Riovanes Castle, and he had to take great care not to let that slip.

He still had no idea whether or not the fated confrontation between Ramza and Hashmalum had happened yet. Though, if it hadn't, it would be best if the leonine demon who wore his father's face did not become wise to the knight blade's continued presence in the realm of the living.

"Sorry, I'm Damien Mitchell," he said, fishing the late Wyvern Knight's dog tag out from under his shirt. "I was formerly a knight at Riovanes, bodyguard to Duke Garrath Barrington. However, he was not a generous employer, so I left to join the Goltana army."

Doug raised an eyebrow, and Izlude suddenly found himself wondering if there had been some flaw in his tale. "Is that so?" the old man asked, almost offhandedly, but then giving a nod of understanding. "Well, that doesn't surprise me. The late Lord of Riovanes may have painted himself as a humanitarian, with those orphanages he built after the Fifty Years War, but it was no secret that he had quite a few skeletons in his armoire. In fact, I even heard that his own wards had little love for him."

"Late? You mean Barrington is dead also?" the knight blade asked, feigning surprise though he already knew this, having heard it from the Galthana twins while he was shadowing Ramza's party.

"Unfortunately, yes. His crushed body was found in his castle courtyard. The investigators believe that he fled to the roof, trying to escape whatever force was behind the massacre. But, whatever it was caught up with him and hurled him to his death."

"Oh… that's unfortunate. He was hardly a good man, but not many deserve such a gruesome end."

"Indeed."

The knight blade still had much he wished to say. He wanted to know if there had been any news of what had happened in the aftermath of the flood that had nearly claimed his life, as well as any tidbits that might lend new direction to his quest. Yet, if this village was indeed newly built, he doubted that Doug had had much time to visit the tavern and listen to gossip, assuming this village even had a tavern. Nonetheless, Izlude could feel time pressing upon him. He wanted to get back on the road and resume his search for Alma. Having effectively lost the trail of Ramza and his companions, he knew his only option was to act upon his contingency plan and travel to Orbonne Monestary. Once there, he would lie in wait for the young Beoulve to arrive and the confrontation to unfold.

After that, it would just be the simple matter of finding Alma and stealing her away from Hasmalum's clutches without dying for a second time at the hands of either the Lucavi demons or Ramza's band.

 _Oh yes, simple indeed!_ Izlude mused with a mental snort.

Still, he could see no better alternative. And, since Nelly had also survived the flood and this newfound village lay somewhere fairly close to Fort Besselat, a journey to Orbonne would be swift.

Thus resolved, Izlude tried to get up. But, to his dismay, he found that he had not emerged from his ordeal at Fort Besselt quite as unscathed as he'd thought. His vision blurred and his legs wobbled beneath him as he tried to rise. His caretaker also noticed and laid a restraining hand on his shoulder.

"Not so fast, son!" Doug admonished. "You've been through far too much, and you need time to mend."

"Well… I appreciate your help and I don't want to sound rude, but I must return to the front lines," Izlude spluttered, trying vainly to figure out which of the three blurry old men was the real Doug. "Otherwise, I may very well find myself branded a deserter."

"Easy, son! You may not realize this since you've been comatose, but the War of the Lions is over! Has been for over two months! There is no battle for you to return to!"

Izlude stared at the old farmer for a long moment, too stunned to speak.

"The war is over?" he murmured, unable to hide his amazement at this news.

And, indeed, this news defied the knight blade's wildest dreams. Not so long ago, back when he'd still been aligned with the unseen instigators of the war - and, indeed, the unseen instigators behind them - there were days he found himself wondering if the war would ever end...

...which, he realized with the benefit of hindsight, was precisely the point.

The longer the war dragged on, the more people died either from combat, starvation, or disease. The longer the war dragged on, the higher taxes rose and the fewer jobs became. The longer the war dragged on, the more scarce food became and the more people succumbed to the slow torture of watching their neighbors and loved ones being ravaged by hunger.

The longer the war dragged on, the angrier people became at the crown and the nobility...and the more susceptible to the church's plans to displace the monarchy.

Yet, the war had ended. And, by the sound of it, very suddenly. What's more, since Izlude yet lived, he suspected that the Lucavi demons' plans had not come to fruition either.

Had his last prayer, that Ramza would find the means to expose the demons and that Ivalice would rally against them, been answered?

"How is that possible?" he asked, still dumbstruck. "How could the war have ended so suddenly? And, who won?"

A distant expression came over Doug's face and, when he spoke next, his voice held a palpable air of philosophical melancholy.

"Does anybody ever win in war?"

Izlude, recalling that Doug and his neighbors had built this small hamlet with their bare hands after their former homes had been consumed by the fires of war, lowered his head shamefacedly.

"Forgive me, I chose my words poorly."

"Yes, but you ask a fair question. Frankly, I don't believe either side truly won. But, if you're asking if it's Larg or Goltana who acts as regent of the throne, then the answer is neither. Both of them were killed during the battle of Fort Besselat."

"What? But, how?" he asked, though he already suspected the hand of the High Confessor at work.

"Larg was killed by a Nanten assassin who had infiltrated his personal guard. Goltana met his end by the hands of Count Orlandu. Thunder God Cid had been relieved of command when evidence was found linking him to a plot hatched between Larg and certain officials of the church who were seeking to advance Prince Orinas' claim to the throne. The count was imprisoned in Besselat, but, just after the sluice was opened, he broke free. He confronted Goltana and the pair died on one another's swords."

"But if Larg, Goltana, and Ruvelia are all dead, who rules Ivalice now? Prince Orinas is far too young."

"Unfortunately, the young prince is nowhere to be found. He has not been seen since the flooding of Fort Bessalet, and is presumed dead."

"Then, who sits on the throne now?"

"Believe it or not, the new king is former Blackram lieutenant, Delita Hyral."

For a long moment, Izlude stared at Doug in disbelief, his mind unable to take in what he had just heard. Delita? _Delita Hyral_ now sat upon the throne? To Izlude's knowledge, the man wasn't of royal or even noble birth. How could he have managed even to secure a place amongst the contenders for the throne, let alone claim the prize? The knight blade was about to voice these questions when he suddenly remembered the conversation between Ramza and Agrias back at Riovanes, which he'd overheard while hiding in Barrington's meeting room. He also recalled Rafa's comment about the black knight and the princess never being seen far from one another, and it didn't take long for him to make the connection.

Delita, Izlude recalled, was a very cunning man, a Machiavellian of the highest order, able to entice friend and foe alike into dancing in the palm of his hand.

Apparently, Izlude had grossly underestimated just how clever Delita was, if the Blackram lieutenant could win a crown by winning the heart of the princess.

Doug seemed to have sensed his train of thought. "Yes, it's true. Hyral became king after rescuing Princess Ovelia and finally ending the War of the Lions for good and all. Though he may be common born, he is highly revered by the people as the savior of Ivalice."

Knowing that the old farmer had no reason to lie, Izlude easily surmised that Doug didn't know the truth about just what lay beneath the new king's angelic image. However, Izlude thought it best to hold his tongue. If this surprising development had, indeed, ended the War of the Lions, then Izlude found himself reluctant to risk that terrible conflict starting back up again by exposing the new king's facade.

After all, even if Izlude shared his insights into Delita's true character, who would believe him?

"Ah, but here I am fawning over him like some country maiden when you must want to know the how of it," Doug spoke up, shaking Izlude back to attention. "After the deaths of Goltana and Orlandu, Delita rose to command the Black Lion faction. By then, Larg and his closest advisors were dead and the Hokuten were spent. Between that, and with Ruvelia and Orinas missing, Delita was able to persuade the White Lion to surrender, promising clemency to his former enemies if they pledged their fealty to him and his queen. Almost immediately thereafter, High Confessor Ryker recognized Delita's claim to the throne and vowed to support his efforts to rebuild Ivalice."

"Wait, High Confessor Ryker?" Izlude asked, puzzled, for he remembered Ryker as being only a decidedly unexceptional cardinal of the church.

"He was named High Confessor after the death of his predecessor. No one is really certain how this was accomplished, but an armed party infiltrated the great church in Murond and assassinated the late High Confessor."

Being only too aware of the avarice that lurked beneath the late High Confessor's protestations of piety, Izlude offered only a solemn nod in reply. As was often the case on this most mystifying of days, this revelation created more questions than it answered. Had the High Confessor been privy to the depravations of the Lucavi? It was doubtful that a Lucavi demon would accept such a frail old man as a host, even if his voice was a potent tool. That argued against Ramza and company killing him to reclaim a holy stone, but it was still possible that the young Beoulve did have a hand in the old man's death, and Izlude suspected that the church would claim so in any event.

And, with the High Confessor dead and his office now held by someone far more malleable, the knight blade found himself suspecting that Delita would not be playing the role of puppet monarch.

Upon reflection, Izlude had to admit that he was impressed by Delita's accomplishments, despite the treachery, lies, and bloodshed that he'd used to weave it all together.

He'd been reared as a pawn of the nobility, being born to a humble family of serfs, and then he'd seemingly traded one master for another by joining in the church's plot to seize the reins of Ivalice.

Now, however, he had well and truly turned the tables.

The nobles who'd once ruled over him were either dead or were groveling before him, while the church that sought to make him their puppet king now found that the strings had been cut and their puppet now danced freely.

Delita was unopposed by church and state alike.

But, did the same hold true for demonkind?

Izlude did not know, but he recalled that he had his own problems. Whoever now sat upon Ivalice's throne, it did not change the fact that he had to save Alma. He'd been about to rise again, feeling marginally steadier on his feet, but an admonishing look from Doug brought him up short.

"I see. Well, that's quite a lot to take in. But, if what you say is true, and there is no battle for me to return to, I must find some other line of work. I sense that my services as a knight may no longer be required."

"Trust me, son, you aren't the only one," Doug intoned kindly. "Now that the war is over, many knights and soldiers have chosen to set aside their blades and take up more peaceful work. Many cities and towns that have been ravaged by the war, particularly those on the front lines, so there's great demand for builders, masons, and anyone with a strong back who's after an honest day's wages. Given the demand for such labor, I imagine that would probably be your best bet."

Izlude nodded and, seeing that Doug wasn't making any objections, gingerly tested his footing. Once he saw that his legs would support him, he carefully rose. The room spun for a moment, but soon the floor and ceiling swung back into place and, after a few experimental steps, the knight blade let out a sigh of relief.

"I may just take your advice," he said, turning to Doug and offering his hand. "I should be on my way soon, I've already burdened you enough. I don't have much money left on me, but I still wish to repay you for your kindness."

Doug shook the proffered hand, but waved away Izlude's words. "It's alright, Sir Damien. You may be back on your feet, barely, but I can tell that you have not yet completely recovered. Besides, there is no need to hurry. It'll probably be quite some time before Ivalice is back on her feet and, until then, I doubt you'll have trouble finding work in mending this realm's wounds."

Here, Doug paused and a sad smile crossed his face.

"And, in truth, I would like you to stay at least a little longer. My children has long since left home, and it's just my wife and I here. We have only a few strangers here with us, and the days are too long and quiet. If you would be so good to provide us with your company for just a few more days, I'll consider this debt you so insist that you owe me to be paid in full." The old farmer smiled as he said this, his age and hardship showing and yet outshone by how grateful he was that he and his loved ones had weathered the storm. And, Izlude could not keep a smile from tugging at the corners of his own mouth as well. For the moment, he was able to forget his troubles and silently revel in simply being alive. Once again, death had seized him with its clammy fist, and once again he had had the good fortune to slip free. And, as if that wasn't enough, he still had his faithful mount who had brought him to this place of safety and had discovered people kind enough to nurse him back to health.

He felt, for the first time in the long time, that Ivalice's long night was giving way to dawn.

What's more, he felt a renewed sense of hope that he would some way, somehow, find his beloved Alma again…

* * *

For the next three days and nights, Izlude remained with Doug and his wife. Since it was just the three of them, there was never any shortage of work needing to be done into order to keep the modest farm afloat. Izlude spent much of the day helping around the old man's barn and assisting his wife with some housework. As a knight and a former nobleman, he was not used to performing such menial labor, but he considered it a small price to pay after everything the old farmer had done for him. At first, his host took care not to work him too hard, but both men were amazed at how Izlude seemed to grow stronger with each passing hour. His caretaker also took note of the knght blade's jet black hair and steel-grey eyes which was very rare among native Ivalicians.

Whenever Doug mentioned this, Izlude could not prevent his hand from straying to the pocket where the holy stone yet lay hidden.

As the sun vanished into the western sea, work in the barn would cease and Izlude would help Doug's wife, Helen, to cook dinner and, afterward, shared the evening meal with the elderly couple. The two spun quite a yarn about their children, all of whom had thankfully survived the war, and Izlude found himself getting quite absorbed in their stories. Doug and Helen had not had an easy life, before becoming parents or after, and some of the antics of their children had left him agape. Yet, for all that, there was no mistaking how greatly the elderly couple's happy memories outweighed the bad, or how their faces lit up at the prospect of their children returning to them with little ones of their own in tow.

That train of thought called to mind the knight blade's own dreams of reuniting with Alma, marrying her as he had promised, and starting a family.

That dream seemed close now, with the war over, and all the sweeter after hearing such tales as Doug and Helen told of rearing their own children.

Still, Izlude knew he would need some direction in order to make those dreams a reality. So, after pursuing the subject of Doug and Helen's children for a polite length of time, he asked them about what else had happened during his two and a half month coma. In addition to the deaths of the dukes, the queen, and the High Confessor, the elderly couple revealed that many other high ranking officials of church and state alike had also been killed or gone missing during the war. Izlude learned, with little interest or pity, that Celebrant Bremondt, the odious man who had briefly ruled Lionel after Cardinal Draclau's death, had been slain, along with Aliste who was the recently appointed commander of Lionel's Gryphon Knights. Since both funerals had been open to the public, as had the High Confessor's, it stood to reason that none had been Lucavi, even though the Celebrant's casket had reportedly remained closed throughout the entire service. That hadn't come as much of a surprise, however. Though Izlude knew Bremondt only by reputation, the late Celebrant had a reputation as being a self-centered, delusional coward who hid behind a cadre of hired blades.

Unbecoming the sentiment might be, but Izlude suspected that, whatever bastion of worship emerged in Ivalice following the War of the Lions, it would be better off without such men to despoil it.

A number of Pro-Orinas nobles had also been killed or exiled, their estates and possessions passing into the hands of Delita's supporters. Most of these were commoners that had been granted peerage and, like the new king himself, been remade to stand atop the hierarchy of society where once they'd been beneath notice. Very little of this was helpful to Izlude, until the elderly couple mentioned the apparent demise of the Beoulve family.

Hearing this, Izlude felt the blood drain out of his face.

Could Ramza, Alma, and their friends have met their end while he'd wandered the limbo between life and death?

At first, he adamantly refused to believe it. After all, if they were dead, then why wasn't Ivalice firmly in the sulfur smelling claws of the Lucavi? And yet, if Alma had been corrupted by demonkind, as his dream had suggested, then what other fate could have befallen her other than some horrific reenactment of Ramza's blade piercing her breast?

In fact, if Vormav's tortured soul was anything to go by, death might be a kindness by comparison.

He shook off the thought, so violently, that his hosts regarded him with concerned bemusement. Thinking quickly, Izlude let a note of grief seep into his tone.

"Forgive my outburst. My father served with the great Balbanes Beoulve during the Fifty Years War and enraptured me with tales of his heroism. It...it is, indeed, a tragedy that his progeny should meet such a fate."

The ease with which he feigned this grief, and that it didn't feel feigned at all, bothered him. And, he wondered if that might hold some dread portent.

"Indeed, it is," Helen said sadly as she ladled some beef stew in Izlude's bowl. "News is a bit scarce out here, but we'd heard that, in the weeks following the dukes' deaths, Lords Dycedarg and Zalbag Beoulve also met tragic ends."

"Do you know any specifics?" Izlude asked, despite his fear.

"Not many, I'm afraid," Doug replied. "Lord Dycedarg appointed himself guardian of Prince Orinas after Duke Larg's death, that's no secret. The late High Confessor sent a representative from the Knights Templar to persuade him to accept a truce which the church was brokering to both sides, but to no avail.

 _No doubt trying to salvage their original plan to craft a puppet monarchy._ Izlude mused silently, but he shook himself back to attention as Doug continued.

"But, barely a week later, we heard rumors that Ramza, the youngest Beoulve, broke into Igros Castle and killed Dycedarg. There were witnesses from amongst Igros' castle guard."

That Ramza would be painted as the culprit hardly surprised Izlude. After all, who better to be cast in the role of villain than a man who'd earned the ire of every corrupt power broker from Igros to Limberry? No doubt those "witnesses" had received a generous payment for their testimony.

"The strange thing is that these same witnesses claim that Ramza and Lord Zalbag were fighting together against Lord Dycedarg."

That, Izlude was certain, could not have been in the High Confessor's script.

"But, why?" he asked, hardly needing to feign confusion. "Why would Lord Zalbag fight alongside a heretic against the head of his house?"

"The witnesses spun a confusing tale," Doug admitted. "They claim that the elder brothers were fighting before Ramza even arrived, that they'd heard an argument through the door. Lord Zalbag accused Lord Dycedarg of killing their father, though Lord Dycedarg insisted to the guards that it was some madness talking."

Madness it might have seemed, but Izlude could see the method in it. If Dycedarg had, in fact, been responsible for Balbanes Beoulve's death, and Zalbag somehow discovered it, then it would explain why the estranged siblings did battle and why Zalbag would abide a so-called heretic fighting at his shoulder.

"And, what of Lord Zalbag?" he asked. "How did he die?"

"Yet another mystery," Doug went on. "No one saw him leave Igros after Lord Dycedarg's death, even though the city around the castle is guarded at all hours. And yet, his body was found in Murond days later, right around the same time of the High Confessor's death. The church is reportedly handling the investigations, but who knows if they'll find anything with all this upheaval. What bothers me is that the funerals of the elder Beoulves were not open to the public."

Remembering that the same had held true with Cardinal Draclau, and the most likely reason why, Izlude needed little time to guess the truth. What evidence there was to hand suggested that Dycedarg must've been involved in the Lucavi's schemes as well. Given that Izlude knew from his vision in the realm of the dead that many Templars had been turned to the ways of demonkind, that "representative" might very well have offered Dycedarg a place amongst the demonic ranks. How Zalbag had fit into the scheme was less clear, however. Mulling the question over, Izlude found himself wondering if Zalbag might've joined his younger brother after Dycedarg's death, and that Ramza had stormed Murond in an attempt to rescue his sister, as the young Beoulve had mentioned back in Riovanes. Perhaps Zalbag had died in the assault, and the church had been too stunned by the death of the High Confessor to craft a more plausible cover story? Whatever the reason, it was clear that those elements of the church which were in league with demonkind hadn't wanted their scheme uncovered by some observant mourner.

And, if this likely demon, or demons, had been vanquished at the hands of Ramza and his companions, it had surely heightened the young Beoulve's infamy amongst the true architects of the War of the Lions.

"What of their younger siblings, Ramza and Alma?" he asked, fearful though he was of the answer.

"A lot of people claimed to have seen Ramza since he was declared a heretic, such as those rumors of what happened at Igros," Doug answered, his derisive snort suggesting he did not credit these supposed witnesses. "As for Alma, however, she hasn't been seen since she left Lesalia months ago. There was talk that she had been to Orbonne and then taken to Riovanes Castle by the Knights Templar, for questioning into the matter of Ramza's heresy. But then, she disappeared, her body was never found, and those few who survived the massacre were too unhinged to testify as to her whereabouts."

Inwardly seething with frustration at this latest setback, Izlude listened with half an ear as Helen went on to explain that, with the elder siblings dead and the younger Beoulves missing and presumed dead, the now deserted Igros Castle and the family's wealth had become property of the crown. Izlude wondered what Alma would have made of this news, that the home she'd known all her life was hers no longer, that her elder brothers were dead, and that her childhood friend had wed the princess...

...and, for that matter, whether she even cared.

After all, a demon would have little interest in wealth or family...and the same held true of a corpse.

He shook off the notion, more surreptitiously this time, and silently affirmed over and over again that Ramza and Alma had to still be alive. Interestingly, just as he'd managed to convince himself, he felt a strange warmth radiating from his pocket. It suffused the flesh of his leg, traveling up into his breast until it crested in his heart.

It summoned to mind his mother, faint though his recollections of her were, when she'd given him a hug and assured him that, as bad as things were, the next day would prove better.

Could the stone share his conviction? Or, for that matter, could it know that Alma yet lived?

He didn't know, and he was at a loss as to how one might interrogate a holy stone. Nonetheless, he decided to continue asking about any other unusual events that had occurred during his coma, hoping for some clue by which to resume his mission.

"Well, now that you mention it," Doug began, stroking his chin meditatively, "I heard that there was a mysterious explosion at Orbonne Monastery not long ago. The cause is unknown, but some say they spied a small group of people emerge from the ruins. No one seems to know who they were or why there were there, but they disappeared shortly after."

Upon hearing this, the knight blade's heart, briefly lightened by the stone's seeming affirmation that Alma yet lived, sank into his boots. After all the trouble he'd gone to in secretly trailing Ramza and his companions for nearly two weeks in hopes that they will lead him to Alma, Izlude found, much to his dismay, that he was right back where he'd started. Worse, in fact. When he'd first begun his search, he'd at least had the knowledge that Ramza would pursue the captured Alma to Orbonne. But, with the fated confrontation having apparently come and gone, he now had no idea where to seek his lost love.

But, just as the knight blade found himself ready to give up, the stone made its hidden presence known once again.

This time, he felt a cool, almost admonishing energy radiating from it. It evoked a memory of his father, back when his soul had been his own, during one of his sterner moments. The image of his father's face, drawn in an expression of restrained ire, painted itself over Izlude's eyes and he could swear that he heard his father telling him to pull himself together and that no knight ever won a battle by turning his back to the challenge.

Once again, Izlude wondered at the stone's behavior...and what it might mean for his quest.

"I see…anything else I should know before I head back out into the world?" he asked, wondering if the stone might react if pertinent information was spoken in its presence.

"Well, the only thing more I can tell you is that King Delita has appointed two relatives of his as the new Duke and Duchess of Lionel," Helen answered. "Since that province has lost two lords in as many years, I doubt there were many other candidates."

Even before the stone began to quiver against his thigh, that tidbit piqued Izlude's interest. "Relatives of the king, you say? What are their names?" he asked, certain he'd struck on something.

"Drake Seymour and his younger sister, Catherine, both cousins of the king."

Judging by the stone's now frantic gyrations, this was no coincidence. Izlude may not have known Delita particularly well, but he did remember the former Blackram Knight mentioning that he had no living relatives. His parents had died of plague, and his only sister was killed in a tragic accident not long after. These 'cousins' of the king were, likely, nothing of the sort.

As Izlude pondered who these "cousins" might be, and the holy stone's insistent thrumming threatened to tear open his pocket, he felt more and more certain that there was some connection between the king's supposed relatives and the missing Beoulves...

...or, perhaps it was even simpler than that?

Ramza's actions throughout the war had done much to advance Delita's agenda, however unwittingly. What's more, Ramza had admitted that Delita had passed up many opportunities to kill the young Beoulve, despite seemingly compelling motives. More curious still, Izlude recalled that Delita had fought alongside Ramza against Zalmo, even though he risked his hidden agenda in doing so.

Delita had, Izlude suspected, rewarded those who previously trusted him with a dagger in the back. But, what if he'd chosen to honor Ramza's contribution, and their old friendship, differently?

Could the new duke and duchess of Lionel be the younger Beoulve siblings, living under false identities as Izlude himself was? Could Delita have repaid their contribution to his new life by giving them new lives in turn, where they might be safe from any lingering foes? The stone fell silent as he completed the thought, but not without releasing a surge of warmth which carried an almost congratulatory air.

As he dipped his bread in his stew, Izlude asked as casually as he could "This new duke and duchess, what are they like?"

"I've never seen either of them," Doug admitted. "But, from what I've heard, the Seymours are redheads with sky blue eyes. They are very close in age, and quite young too. Duke Drake is said to have been a mercenary who fought at King Delita's side. He certainly has the build of a fighter, but I've heard some ladies say that he has quite the baby face. His sister, Duchess Catherine, is said to be a ravishing beauty skilled in the healing arts. There are rumors that she was briefly engaged to a knight - a Templar, no less - but that he died in the war."

Izlude had been taking a sip from his ale as he listened to Doug, but nearly choked on the liquid when he'd heard that last sentence.

Engaged to a Templar? One who had died in the war? Even without the holy stone humming in his pocket, there was no mistaking where this trail of clues was leading.

The Seymours could only be Ramza and Alma Beoulve.

At this revelation, his heavy heart seemed to grow wings and fly free, dancing upon the air as the winds of a brighter future bore it ever heavenward. But, having already tipped his hand once, he bent all of his will to letting nothing more than an expression of curiosity cross his features

"I see… I'm curious, about this new duchess," he said, all too conscious of the depths of his understatement. "Perhaps she might have use of my blade. You say they both reside at Lionel?"

"At the moment. They just moved into the castle recently and haven't been out much. However, we've heard tell that both of them will soon be summoned to the capital by orders of the king. By the sounds of it, their cousin wishes to formally introduce them to the royal court as well as the Ivalician citizenry. If you are interested in presenting yourself to them, I recommend you head to the Lesalia in about a month," Helen suggested, a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Though, if you do enter their service, I suspect most of your time will be spent beating back eager young suitors."

After everything Izlude had been through since his father's fateful summons, including his brief sojourn in the realm of the dead, shielding Alma from unwanted male attention sounded blissful by comparison

"Madam, I look forward to it."

* * *

That night, after Izlude had left the table and sought his bed, he could not help but marvel at the incredible stroke of luck he'd just had. His benefactors, in addition to nursing him back to health, had unwittingly told him where to find Ramza and Alma. Where once he'd feared his quest had failed, that his miraculous resurrection had gone to waste, he now had a clearer trail than when he'd first set out to find his lost love. Even better, his adopted identity gave him an excellent cover story by which to get close to Alma. As a newly titled noblewoman, there would be no shortage of men looking to earn their bread by safeguarding her from ne'er-do-wells.

Still, despite this fortuitous turn, there was still much to do before he could seek out Alma.

According to the Fredericks, 'Catherine Seymour' was still single and would be introduced to marriageable men through a ball the newly crowned royal couple plan to hold in a month's time. Izlude could not help feeling a turning in his stomach at that particular tidbit, however. What if Alma accepted one such suitor and he arrived to find her already another man's wife? It was possible, given that she had ample reason to believe that the knight blade was dead, and this dire prospect was enough to cause him a sleepless night.

Restless, but refusing to let despair find purchase in his mind, he resolved to spend the night planning his next move. As his hosts had suggested, he would make for the royal capital where the new duke and duchess will make their entrance into Ivalician society. In the meantime, he would need money and new clothes, as his second brush with death had left him rather impoverished and less-than-presentable. He would need funds, which meant he would need to find some work along the way to Lesalia. Since the road between Limberry and the capital crossed Dorter and Goland, both of which were places that would likely pay good coin for a strong pair of hands, he would start by traveling towards the two towns and seeing if either offered likely prospects. Once he had enough gil to afford presentable attire, he would present himself to the Duchess Seymour.

Hopefully, the stone would choose that moment to undo its alterations to his face and voice, allowing them to be reunited for good and all.

The knight blade also had hopes of seeing his elder sister again. Having seen her accompanying Ramza in the vision he'd had during his brief time in the realm of the dead, he suspected that she would not be too far from the Beoulve siblings, especially if Alma had indeed given Meliadoul his letter. Assuming that reality played out much like the vision implied, and the evidence of a titanic confrontation at Orbonne suggested it had, he might very well have the chance to explain himself to his sister. More importantly, he hoped his return might help to revive at least a little of the sister he had known and loved. He still remembered her feral expression and livid screaming when she'd practically hurled herself on Ramza's blade at Bervenia and the blank lusterless expression on the image of her from his vision.

Whether his return might banish that anger and sadness and help her to heal, he did not know. For now, Izlude decided that he would cross that bridge when he came to it.

 

* * *

At some point while he'd been drawing up a rough timetable for his job hunting, Izlude had finally succumbed to the late hour and dozed off. He was roused, however, when a familiar wark echoed through his window. Realizing he'd slept past the planned hour of his departure, he vaulted out of bed and snatched up his pack. He charged down the stairs, only to be barred by a smiling Helen.

"Surely you didn't think we'd send you off so unceremoniously?" she asked rhetorically, gesturing to the table behind her.

Upon the table was what must've been half the old couple's larder. Pork, bacon, beef, eggs, fish, an assortment of fresh vegetables, and pitchers of milk. The sight of it caused the knight blade's stomach to rumble and, though he knew time was pressing upon him, he relented to this final act of hospitality.

After all, there was no telling when, or if, he would ever see his benefactors again.

Seating himself at the table, he offered a hurried prayer of thanksgiving and then filled his plate. Doug came in just before Izlude had managed to get the first forkful past his lips, saying that he had loaded Nelly's saddlebags with such travel rations as dried meat and smoked fish, as well as several filled waterskins. Izlude, somehow forcing his fork away from his mouth long enough to offer his thanks to the old farmer, wasn't surprised when he saw Doug wave away his words.

"Think nothing of it, young man," he insisted.

"Still, I do wish I had some way to pay you back," Izlude admitted, suddenly conscious of just how light his purse was.

"The help you've been around the farm was more than enough," Helen answered sweetly. "Besides, having a strapping young man around the house brought back memories of the old days."

Helen was, no doubt, referring to her sons, and Izlude could not help but blush at the implication. At Helen's insistence, however, he turned his attention back to his meal. With his departure drawing near, excitement was soon threatening to crowd out his appetite, but he nonetheless forced himself to finish his meal. In between mouthfuls, he conferred with Doug and Helen about his hastily drawn plans. Offering the cover story that he'd need to look less like a ragamuffin in order to have a chance at entering the duchess' service, he voiced the notion of working in Dorter or Goland long enough to earn the money for making himself more presentable and to cover other expenses.

Doug gave a nod of approval and, in replying, he gave the former knight blade one final gift.

"You might also consider some, shall we say, treasure hunting," he suggested. "You might not know this, but, during the war, Dorter and Goland became nests of crime. Vice, trafficking, opiates, thievery, usurary, smuggling, you name it. Most of these crime rings have gone silent or been broken up, but very little of their loot has been found."

Here, he paused and leaned in close to Izlude, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

"The maze of sewers and coal shafts beneath those two towns would be a likely place to look. And, if you did find some of that loot, you might very well be able to retire."

Or offer a proper dowry to "Duchess Seymour", Izlude mused, the notion already taking root in his mind.

He had already decided that he wouldn't turn away from a stint mining coal if it would help him reunite with Alma. If he discovered a small trove of forgotten treasure in those soot stained tunnels, so much the better.

And, even if he didn't, it would not stop him. Whether by the sweat of his brow or the luck of the devil, he would find his love again and they would have the life he'd promised her.

Finishing his meal, and finding himself regretting the rapidity with which he had done so, he took his leave of the table and headed for the stables. He had little need to seek out Nelly, for she let out a wark of joy and poked her beaked head out of her stall the moment he drew near. Izlude, surprised but relieved at such a greeting when his work in his hosts' home kept him too busy to visit her, gratefully stoked his faithful mount's bill. Seeing that Nelly was still in superb health, just as Doug had promised, he was once more struck by his good fortune in being rescued by the elderly couple. His hosts had truly been generous beyond words. Not only had they rescued and cared for him, as well as Nelly, for over two months during his coma, they had also given him provisions for his journey without accepting any payment.

Impoverished these souls might have been, but their kindness shone brighter than any jewels or gold that might be found within the folds of the earth.

Much though Izlude wished he could offer more than words of gratitude, he knew he could not delay much longer. He opened the stall door and strapped on Nelly's saddle, the saddlebags bulging with provisions that would keep well on the long road ahead. Nelly, who was too capricious to stand being cooped up, was only too happy to be embarking on another journey with her master.

Before he set off, Izlude sought out both Doug and Helen and gave each of his benefactors a hug. "Thank you so much for everything you've done for me. I will never forget it. And, once I have found a trade to earn my bread, I will come back to visit and repay you properly."

Doug smiled and characteristically waved away the knight blade's words. "Think nothing of it, son. We were happy to have you with us, however briefly. Good luck on your journey, and may the Lord be with you."

"You too, my friends. Goodbye…"

With that, Izlude swung into the saddle, snapped the reins and rode off, once more seeking his lost love amidst the changed world that was Ivalice.

Changed it might have been, but perhaps it was still a place where his dreams, of a peaceful life with Alma at his side and of the joys of rearing a family, might yet come true.

**A/N: Ok, we will end this chapter here. Once again, I'd like to thank my co-writer and editor, Falchion1984 for his help in keeping this story going and we'd like to thank all our readers and followers too Please review and tell us what you think and suggestions are always welcomed. ;)**


	7. Precious Burdens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience with the updates. I'd like to thank my co-writer Falchion1984 for helping me make this story possible as well as our illustrator, Arisa of FineArts Illustrations for bringing our story to life with her amazing art! Please check out her DA: http://arisa777o-w-o.deviantart.com/

Lionel Castle was a foreboding place with a foreboding history.

Some twelve centuries ago, Saint Ajora Glabados - or, at least, the Saint Ajora Glabados most Ivalicians believed had died a martyr those many hundreds of years ago - was taken to the gates of this ancient fortress in chains, having been captured by the Holy Ydoran Empire. The priesthood of the ancient faith of Pharism, seeing their flocks diminishing as more and more of their followers were lured away by this new rising star, had used their deep rooted influence in the empire to quash the would-be usurper of the spiritual reins of Ivalice.

They had soon after dragged the reputed child of the gods to the Gallows of Golgollada, which would be remembered with infamy thereafter.

And, in so doing, they had signed their own death warrant.

Soon after Saint Ajora gasped his last in the grip of the noose, Murond, the heart of Pharism, was devoured by the raging seas. Even more than twelve hundred years later, only a tiny sliver of island remained of Murond where, ironically, the center of the Church of Glabados was later erected.

Since then, the faith which was built upon Glabados's reputed divinity and teachings had grown in strength, especially in recent years as it fed on the disdain many Ivalicians held for the crown and the nobility after Ivalice's defeat in the Fifty Years War. Yet now, with much of the church's leadership gone, the men and women of the cloth, much like their flocks, found themselves seeking their bearings in the new world that had been born from the ashes of the War of the Lions...

...at least that was some of them would say if asked in confidence, and more than a few of them would've believed it. However, the truth, known to only a handful of people, was far more complicated.

The newly crowned king, Delita Hyral the First, was one of those few, as was the newly ordained High Confessor Ryker. And, in an unspoken addition to the litany of ironies that so characterized Ivalice's spiritual history, the former had gone from the latter's puppet to the puppeteer of all he surveyed. Still, pragmatic enough to know that unmasking the church's machinations would backfire, Delita had contented himself with watching his former masters dancing upon the strings.

And, through it all, the grim walls and battlements of Lionel Castle, which had seen the rise and fall of one faith and the trials and tribulations of another, remained a silent witness to the unfolding of history.

Some of that history, however, was far more recent and had struck close to the heart of the Ivalician people.

Many had wept long and bitterly at the death of Cardinal Draclau.

Unlike many of those who had stood at the helm of Ivalice during the Fifty Years War, Draclau's name had never been spoken in contemptuous whispers, for all remembered his knightly heroics during that terrible conflict and his near daily efforts to shore up the peoples' belief that a better future yet remained attainable amidst those dark days.

But, again, the truth was more complicated.

Even if the people could be convinced that the reason they'd been barred from attending the cardinal's funeral was so that none would discover he had spent his final years in the service of demonkind, how much deeper that terrible revelation would grind in the dagger that was already sheathed their hearts.

Suffice to say, the name Ramza Beoulve, who was widely believed to have been responsible for the cardinal's death, was spoken only in the most furtive and scornful whispers.

However, once again, the truth was more complicated.

Many months after this tragedy, Celebrant Bremondt had arrived to take up the late cardinal's duties. Though none would dare say so aloud, all were soon quite certain that the delusional and cowardly Celebrant was no Draclau and, before they could even force themselves to swallow the notion of being under his governance, he too had been slain by the heretic Ramza.

And, in such dark times, two liege lords in as many years meeting untimely ends while acting at the behest of the Church of Glabados as governors of an ancient holding of the pagan Pharists - their deaths coming at the hand of a heretic, no less - was more than enough to cause the people to regard the ancient castle with no small amount of dread.

Some believed the castle to be haunted by the evil pagan spirits of the ancient Pharists while others, who had been leery of the castle even before Draclau's death, reiterated long held beliefs that the edifice should be torn down. Both groups, however, gave a wide berth to the empty castle...

...or, at least, they had thought it was empty.

On one quiet evening, the subdued activity of the city that lay in the shadows of the abandoned castle jerked to a halt when, to everyone's collective astonishment, the wailing of a child echoed from within the castle's master bedroom. Every pair of eyes snapped in the direction of the sound, and their amazement grew by leaps and bounds when an oil lamp in the window of the castle's master bedroom flared to life and a woman's gentle humming wafted out from within.

"I tell you, the castle's haunted," somebody murmured, his words punctuated by fearful whimpers.

* * *

"Lady Agrias, how's this?" Lavian asked as she and Alicia, both twins skillfully balancing themselves on a pair of ladders, held between them a new painting Ramza had purchased to liven up the otherwise bare and dreary foyer of Lionel Castle.

And, indeed, the castle sorely needed such color to alleviate its vast expanses of clammy stone.

Ramza's companions had been, to put it mildly, rather skeptical at the notion of trusting the manipulative King Delita's promise of issuing pardons for the companions and creating new identities for the surviving Beoulve siblings. And, the former Beoulve had met with no small amount of resistance at the notion of his group taking up residence in the very site of their first battle against the Lucavi, not to mention that very place where Ramza had been branded a heretic and where Beowulf had been similarly besmirched after his beloved Reis had been turned into a dragon by Bremondt's errant curse.

Yet, despite the infamous secret history of both Delita and Lionel Castle, Ramza had held fast to his conviction that Delita could be trusted to be truthful when it suited him and, on a more practical note, that he wished for a safe and permanent home for the most innocent of the Beoulve line. Given Lionel Castle's new-found infamy, even the reward for capturing a supposed heretic could not tempt would-be bounty hunters to dare entering their new home.

Though some were still leery at the notion, all remembered how Ramza had guided them through one harrowing escapade after another. And, when weighed against the faith each of the companions had in young Beoulve's leadership and judgment, these fears simply could not prevail.

Bonds had been forged amidst the horrors of war and the travails of fighting against the worst of mankind and demonkind, bonds which were not easily broken.

Maybe new troubles would cross their doorstep, which was always possible given Ramza's supposed heresy, or maybe their future travails would take a form which had nothing to do with his alleged crimes. All that was certain was that, if their doorstep was darkened, whoever was responsible would find the true heroes of the War of the Lions armed and ready to face the threat.

For now, however, the Murry twins, who regarded Agrias Oaks as the older sister they never had, were quite eager to liven up the castle for their "niece".

Agrias, who in the past had been likened to an animated marble statue for her combination of cool beauty and grimly silent demeanor, found a smile breaking across her face at the twins's handiwork. After following Ramza and Agrias all over Ivalice and into the underworld to do battle against the Lucavi and emerging victorious, this delicate task was child's play to the two. Some amongst their former comrades in the Lionsguard would surely consider such a task to be demeaning, and Agrias might've agreed, but she was nonetheless most grateful that the pair had stayed at her side through the endless battles and her unexpected pregnancy.

The twins had grown in skill and wits during the war, even adopting different vocations for the first time in their shared memory. Alicia had made brief explorations into the craft of the thief and the archer before finding the role of the monk to her liking, while Lavian had made forays into the role of white mage, mystic, and, ultimately, summoner. While they'd enjoyed the experiment, and their new skills had served them well in many battles, old habits promptly reasserted themselves once the War of the Lions was over. Lavian and Alicia had ultimately decided that they missed fighting shoulder to shoulder and returned to their long held practice of fighting together, as well as their childhood habit of dressing alike. So alike, in fact, that only those close to the twins could tell them apart, and even then only because Lavian had a small mole on her left cheek while Alicia's was on her right.

Currently, the twins were garbed in a pair of outfits based on the legendary, if strangely titled, Onion Knight. Both wore colorful doublets ending in short skirts, as well as high leather boots. Atop their heads, they wore ornate helms of ancient design, with distinctive visors that had a number of vertical eye slits, topped with a regal array of colored feathers. The one liberty they'd taken recreating the Onion Knights' uniform was that, rather than tucked into their helms, their long blonde hair cascaded freely to their shoulders. The flamboyant ensemble might make the twins look, to the untrained eye, more the part of ceremonial guards or stage actors than hardened veterans. But, again, those close to the twins knew better; and few were closer to them than their small audience below.

Agrias gazed up at the pair, still smiling as she gently rocked her infant daughter in her arms. Much like the younger knights above, she too had changed her garb after the War of the Lions had come to an end. Rather than the armor of the Lionsguard, she was clad in a dress of deep blue and light gray that brought out the color of her azure eyes. Much like motherhood, however, the dress had come as a surprise and fit on her rather awkwardly...

...literally as well as figuratively.

The elderly couple who'd kept the inn where Rachel had been born had given the dress to the new parents as a gift and, though the wife had spun it herself and with great skill, they had refused any payment. Their happy but nostalgic expressions as they'd presented the gift suggested that, like Ramza and Agrias, they were all too familiar with the challenges and complications which arose when parenthood came unbidden.

Perhaps they saw a bit of themselves in the new parents; two lovers who had unexpectedly learned just how capricious life could be. Yet, the holy knight suspected, the elderly couple had faced and succeeded in the same challenging journey which Ramza and Agrias had found themselves embarking upon when Agrias discovered she was with child. And, perhaps, their gift had been an unspoken affirmation that the younger couple would succeed as well.

Perhaps it was the early effects of motherhood on the holy knight's once strictly practical mind that caused her to accept the dress, or maybe it had been the wistfully happy expressions when the elderly couple had, quite possibly, witnessed some of their own stories of parenthood playing out before their eyes.

More likely, however, it was how, upon seeing the dress, Rachel had reached out and tangled her little fingers in the fabric, smiling all the while.

Whatever the reason, the holy knight had accepted the gift.

When Agrias had pressed the couple for details, they said the dress had originally been made for their daughter, but she had eloped with a famous bard before it had been finished. Though the elderly couple had since reconciled with their daughter and her husband, they hadn't been able to pass along the dress and, upon meeting Ramza and Agrias, thought it might find a good home with the young parents.

If the dress had, indeed, been made for the innkeepers' daughter, then she must've been a budding giantess.

Agrias stood at a respectable height of five feet and eight inches, but the dress's intended owner must've been taller by a sizable margin. The dress was much too long below the waist, and pooled upon the floor in a broad expanse of dragging fabric that covered her feet completely. What's more, the blouse was rather tight due to the muscles Agrias had built up during her years of wielding a blade. And, even if that hadn't been the case, the blouse's pinching her milk laden breasts would've more than made up for it.

The holy knight supposed that, much like when she continued to wear her armor during her pregnancy, her present garb must've made her look quite ridiculous. Or, to more charitable eyes, like a young mother whose knowledge of that role was sorely lacking. Yet, though there was truth in both, she nonetheless still carried herself with the poise and fortitude of the proud holy knight she was. The strength of arms and conviction that had made her a ferocious defender of the then-princess Ovelia, and a far more fearsome protector of her new-found family, would never leave her, even if she never took up the sword again.

Though Agrias hadn't taken the field since learning of her pregnancy, she nonetheless waged many battles of a different sort nowadays.

Since Agrias had given birth, her hands had been full caring for Rachel as well as running her new household alongside Ramza. The irony was not lost on her that their new home was the castle which had once been the domain of their enemies, the late Cardinal Draclau and Celebrant Bremondt. However, when weighed against the prospect of raising her daughter while on the run from church and state alike or amidst hostile foreign lands, the choice had been a simple one...

...at least, the decision had been simple. Making a reality of that decision had proven to be anything but.

After the passing of the castle's previous lords, Lionel Castle had been left abandoned by former residents and outsiders alike, and this neglect were made plain by the yards thick dust that carpeted the stone and the veritable forest of cobwebs that had sprung up amongst the pillars, rafters, and window frames during the several months prior to the arrival of its new tenants. Ramza, Agrias, and Alma had moved in shortly after accepting Delita's offer, along with Lavian, Alicia, and Rad whom King Delita conveniently sent to live with them as their bodyguards. When they'd first arrived, Lionel Castle had seemed more akin to a forgotten tomb; silent, forlorn, and heavy with the dust of ages. Fortunately for its new tenets, however, the castle remained furnished, likely because those who would've looted an empty castle were too superstitious to dare its doorstep. Thus, the small band needed only to clean away the dust to make it comfortable to live in. Still, perhaps owing to her burgeoning maternal instincts, Agrias thought it wouldn't hurt to add a few more touches to the place since this collection of cold and drafty halls would likely become their permanent home.

If this was to be her daughter's home, she wanted it to look and feel the part rather than the foreboding mass of rock she remembered from Draclau's time or the gloomy mausoleum she'd been greeted with upon returning to the site where the group had slain their first demon.

"Just a little more to the left!" the holy knight instructed. The twins obeyed and moved the painting, an antique picture of a phoenix rising from a dying conflagration that had largely turned to ashes, slightly to the left. The painting had caught Agrias's eye while she was shopping in Dorter Trade City with the twins. She had thought, correctly, that her friends would appreciate the symbolism, and the irony, of that the picture. How well, indeed, the image of fire and death becoming rebirth and renewal represented of their journey, their victory against Altima, and their emergence from the ruins of Orbonne Monastery.

"Yes, my lady! How's this?" Alicia asked, rousing the holy knight from her reverie.

"Perfect!" Agrias said with a smile. "Ok, that will be all for now. And, thank you for your help. I really think that painting was just the touch this place needed."

"I do say so, my dear lady," Alicia concurred as she slid down her ladder, promptly adopting the tone of a verbose and snobbish art connoisseur whom the twins had met years ago and behind whose back they'd told many a joke. "It's bold, yet subtle."

"Classical, yet non-traditional," Lavian added as she joined her twin, smirking as she recalled that the man whom they parodied had a penchant for doublespeak.

In another time, such shenanigans would've merited a reprimand from the humorless and disciplined Agrias. Now, however, she snickered at their antics and turned her gaze upon Rachel.

"Your aunties are very silly," she commented to Rachel, who seemed to be laughing along with the twins.

"No, her favorite aunties are very silly," Lavian corrected, and the pair promptly moved in to accentuate the point by crowding around the baby and making funny faces.

Rachel, who never needed much encouragement, quickly began giggling merrily at the display and, despite herself, Agrias soon joined in.

Once more, Agrias found herself marveling at how much she had changed since meeting Ramza. Not so long ago, she would have frowned upon such a frivolous display. Now, however, she had a keen appreciation for the catharsis of laughter and the strange way that her worries for her daughter and her future seemed to diminish when in the presence of friends new and old.

And, one of the former had chosen to make himself known at that moment, for Alicia and Lavian suddenly found themselves being lifted into the air.

"Oh, you ladies slacking off while I've been scrubbing down those windows?" Rad asked, gazing up at the twins upon his shoulders.

The still giggling twins made a pretense of trying to extricate themselves from his grasp, but promptly ceased their squirming in favor of kissing the dark knight on each cheek. Agrias felt more than a hint of disapproval at the sight, but worked to keep her features from showing any such reproach. Though Agrias wasn't quite the iron-clad disciplinarian she had been before sleeping with Ramza, she had not been thrilled when she noticed that Rad and the twins were routinely passing the night in the same tent. Rad only said the trio was having some harmless fun before turning in, though Agrias somehow doubted she and Rad had the same definition of the word "harmless". The twins vouched for him, however, and Agrias decided that, having earned her trust many times over, the pair deserved the benefit of the doubt.

Besides, considering Agrias might very well be having similar conversations with Rachel when she was older, the holy knight decided she'd best pick her battles carefully.

"It does look much better in here, though," Rad commented, making short jumps and wheeling about in the air while the twins clung to him for dear life. "I think we've earned a breather, and I for one am anxious to have some fun with my favorite playmates."

"Just don't hit the ceiling this time," Agrias said, almost thankful when Rachel began to fuss.

"With what?" the twins asked in comical unison, sporting identical cheeky grins.

"Anything at all. Well, it looks like Rachel is getting hungry, so if you three rascals will excuse me…"

"Of course, Lady Agrias", Lavian said with a wink. "We'll get back to work once we've...gone a few rounds. Just leave everything to us!"

The holy knight, forcing herself not to cringe at the image of what those 'rounds' would look like, nodded and left the castle foyer, making her way to one of the bedrooms to feed her daughter. Given that she was practically swimming in her dress, one might've imagined she'd be terrified of tripping over her too-long skirts and toppling over while carrying her precious burden. And, indeed, that dread prospect was never far from the holy knight's mind. Yet, to her amazement, though her eyes never once strayed from those of her daughter, her feet seemed to wend their way to the bedroom of their own accord without so much as a stumble. When Agrias had mentioned this to Reis, the dragonkin had simply smiled and chuckled good naturedly.

Whatever revelation Reis had left unspoken, Agrias was grateful for it. Since Rachel had been born, Agrias rarely got a full night's sleep, as the infant needed to be fed once every few hours. All too often, the holy knight found herself waking up in the middle of the night to nurse and, after that, settling in, almost entranced, to rock her until the sun peeked over the horizon.

Needless to say, Agrias was happy to take whatever small mercies she could get.

Although Ramza did everything he could to help with Rachel's care, this late night nursing was something only the child's mother could do. In addition to getting used to their ironic new home, the young couple had the much greater challenge of getting used to being parents as well. They shared the master bedroom, though only after those magically inclined amongst Ramza's former classmates from the academy had confirmed that no demonic presence yet remained, and kept their daughter in a cradle nearby. During the day, whenever Agrias needed to rest and Ramza and Rad were busy tending the castle, Rachel was cared for by Alma and the twins. Just as surely as they'd fawned over Agrias during her pregnancy, Alicia and Lavian, who already adored the baby girl, couldn't have been kept from her by several Lucavi demons. Alma was also eager to care for her newborn niece, not the smallest reason being that she'd soon be a mother herself, but few could miss the wistful expression that crossed her face when she thought no one was looking.

Though the group had by now learned that Izlude was the father of Alma's baby, and had even coaxed a few stories about him from the Beoulve girl, they nonetheless refrained from prying out of respect for her grief. Besides which, the small group frankly had their hands full with the new and strange circumstances they'd found themselves in.

Apart from taking care of Rachel, there was also the matter of clearing away the neglect the castle had suffered since the deaths of its former lords. In order to maintain the secrecy of the Beoulve siblings' identities, the companions had to make do without the convenience of servants, though it would have been difficult to convince anyone to live and work in the castle anyway. Beowulf and Reis, who had settled in a nearby village, visited often and helped out in any way they could, and the dragonkin had been invaluable in helping Agrias and Alma take their first steps into motherhood. It would probably take months to clean the whole castle with only the six of them, and perhaps longer still before Lionel Castle felt like less like a home-in-exile and more like a true home, but nobody complained. It was enough that they, as well as their rest of their companions who accompanied them throughout their journey, had survived the war and had at least a chance of living peacefully, even if it was in hiding. They just had to wait a little longer, until the new king granted them official pardons, before they could venture out in public, undisguised and without fear of being hunted. That process, however, would take some time.

Delita had implored them to be patient, and Ramza hoped his old friend would prove as good as his word. Until then, however, the small group kept their weapons close and remained on the alert in case the worst should happen.

And, if the worse did come to pass, those responsible would sorely regret it.

Arriving at the door, and still marveling that she hadn't tripped in the morass of fabric about her feet, Agrias slipped into the room she shared with Ramza. Shutting the door behind her, she settled herself comfortably on a sofa located near the window. Agrias adjusted her grip on Rachel and gratefully worked to free herself from the satin casket she had somehow crammed herself into. Unlike most gowns she had seen during her time in court, this simple dress had only two straps, which were held in place by a pair of metal fastenings designed to snap together. The elderly woman who'd woven the dress described it as a modern accouterment.

Given Agrias's previous experiences with modernity, such as Mustadio's infamous alarm clock, she'd been a bit wary.

Still, she supposed this was certainly better than the onerously ostentatious gowns typically worn by noble ladies. Being a minor noble herself, Agrias had been, forcibly, made to wear one in her younger years and she still had nightmares about those crosshatching laces that had to be tied untied one by one. However, when the holy knight found herself gritting her teeth as she blindly probed for the fastening with her free hand, she was left wondering whether this design was much of an improvement.

The strap soon came free with so loud a snap that she was almost afraid she'd broken it. Almost.

The loose strap soon found its way into Rachel's tiny hands and she brought the shiny metal up to her eyes, staring at it in wonderment.

"I've got half a mind to let you keep it," Agrias grumbled and she began to nurse the hungry infant. "Modernity, indeed."

As Rachel dropped the loose strap and began to suckle, Agrias gently massaged her tender breasts which, after having been crammed into the too-tight blouse for so long, were ablaze with red and showed signs of bruising. The holy knight could not keep a grimace from crossing her features as she surveyed these small disfigurements. She'd heard quite a few people describe her as attractive, though Ramza had been the only one who'd made her believe it, but those recollections had turned sour as she'd dealt with some of the less desirable changes to her body. Even before having given birth to Rachel, Agrias had noted with no small amount of displeasure how, whenever she'd donned her armor, a task which seemed to grow more arduous with each passing day, the exercise left her feeling like a two pound sausage in a one pound casing.

Despite Ramza's assurances to the contrary, Agrias was still convinced that being relieved of her precious cargo had not restored her once svelte proportions.

Yet, one glance at Rachel's luminous eyes was more than enough to silence such thoughts.

It was also enough to reinforce the irony of her sudden motherhood. During her time in the Lionsguard, the holy knight had met more than a few women amongst their ranks who were mothers. At first, she had responded to the notion with skepticism...at least, during her more polite moments. Otherwise, her opinions on the subject could be quite unflattering. After all, how could a woman sworn to the defense of the throne be able to fulfill her duties with such a distraction as children? And, what's more, the Lionsguard were also meant to look formidable enough to dissuade would-be foes of the royal family from even attempting to do any harm to those protected by the Lionguards's claws.

Women nearly bursting out of their armor from lingering pregnancy weight hardly fit that particular image.

Then, she had met Lady Beatrix.

Lady Beatrix was a Lionsguard knight with many years of service behind her. She was also married to a Touten knight by the name of Steiner and had, at last count, five children. She also fit Agrias's image of what a Lionsguard knight was supposed to look like about as well as Agrias fit into her newfound garb. She was certainly attractive with her well curved figure and comely face, despite the patch which covered the eye she'd lost in battle against the Romandan armies that had invaded Ivalice across the Rhana Strait. But, below the neck, years of childbearing had left their mark, lending her a matronly bulk that made her look, in the overly opinionated Agrias's mind, more akin to a bipedal cow than a hardened warrior.

In hindsight, the holy knight should have known that whispering such things behind the back of a superior officer would lead to trouble. And, sure enough, the older knight had caught wind of Agrias's opinions and, rather than reprimanding her, offered the holy knight the chance to test those assertions in the training yard.

Two minutes and two score bruises later, Agrias was suitably chastened.

But, it wasn't until she'd become a mother herself that she'd understood why.

Reis, who'd heard the story not long before Rachel's birth, had echoed the holy knight's understanding that, contrary to appearances, there were few things more ferocious than a mother protecting her young. In those same women the holy knight had once disdained, that same protective instinct readily transferred to the younger knights under their command and the royals under their wing. That, she realized with the benefit of hindsight, was why Beatrix was such an outstanding commander.

Much like Ramza, she cared about those she led into battle and, no less important, she never gave them an order she wasn't willing to carry out herself.

Agrias found herself hoping that, one day, she'd have the chance to meet Lady Beatrix again and tell her that, after being drubbed by the older knight and walking more than a few miles in her boots, she'd learned that lesson well.

Agrias was also grateful for Reis who, in addition to delivering her child, had also been generous enough to visit often and show her the ropes when it came to motherhood. As a child, it had always been Agrias's dream to become a knight. And, she'd pursued that dream with the relentless tenacity that had made her a legend amongst the Lionsguard and the obvious choice for the role of Princess Ovelia's chief protector. Even leaving aside the lesson she'd learned on the tip of Lady Beatrix's training sword, she never wanted to marry, let alone have a child. But now, especially after everything she and Ramza had been through, the holy knight was now all too aware of how much she might've missed if chance had not seen fit to drop a certain young Beoulve into her lap.

Maybe she would take up the sword again, or maybe not. But, either way, she now understood those wistful smiles that crossed the faces of those Lionsguard knights who had families waiting for them back home, and she now shared their unspoken wishes to live in peace with her daughter and her love.

Agrias was shaken back to attention when Rachel let out a small burp, usually a clear sign that she was done with her meal. Remembering the first time she tried to breastfeed Rachel, Agrias spent a moment gaping in amazement at how quickly the time had passed. When she'd first pried off her blouse she'd felt a bit awkward, not the smallest reason being that Reis had been watching with those unblinking, eerily perceptive eyes of hers. However, seeing the problem, the dragonkin had helped the holy knight to relax and get comfortable enough to feed the hungry child, allowing Rachel to have her fill much quicker than Agrias would have managed on her own.

After rocking the baby silently for a few moments, the holy knight heard a knock at her door.

"Agrias? Are you in there?" a soft female voice called out. "May I come in?"

"One moment, please!" Agrias called out in reply, conscious of her present state.

She managed to snatch up the loose strap before Rachel could begin playing with it again, but, though she strained and grunted, the strap stubbornly fell short of reuniting with its other half.

"Um, are you alright in there?" Alma asked, a hint of nervousness seeping into her tone.

"Yes, of course, Alma!" Agrias called back, though the strain in her voice likely contradicted her. "I'm just having some trouble with...oh, never mind. Please, come in."

Almost before Agrias had finished her sentence, she heard the door to her room slowly open and her love's younger sister entered. Though she'd looked concerned for a split second, the sight of Agrias struggling to cram herself back into her blouse soon caused Alma's worry to give way to mirth.

 _A two pound sausage, indeed!_ Agrias mused sourly, already plotting her revenge the next time she and Ramza met for a training duel.

Working to stifle her laughter and looking for all the world like a small girl slipping into the kitchen to steal sweets, and reminding Agrias more than a bit of her love's own youthful demeanor, Alma walked in as quietly as she could to avoid startling Rachel.

The Beoulve girl had been trying to keep a straight face at the sight of Agrias's predicament but, ultimately, the quivering upon her lip soon gave way to laughter. Agrias scowled for a moment but then, to her amazement, found herself joining in.

Perhaps it was the sheer ridiculousness of it all, she agonizing about a recalcitrant dress when she had a daughter to raise and a home to put in order, all the while hoping that no one outside their small group would learn of the supposed fugitives hiding in the castle. Maybe it was recalling what Alma had been through - being abducted by the Templar, losing her love, nearly having her very soul evicted from her body by a demon, and learning she was with child by the same man who'd breathed his last in her arms - and that the Beoulve girl deserved whatever joy she could find.

Or maybe, inexplicably, Agrias had found some amusement in this seeming indignity.

"Father Simon often said that the most simple things in life are the most vexing," Alma quipped in a terrible imitation of a sagely tone.

The holy knight had a rejoinder on the tip of her tongue but, when Alma took the troublesome strap and secured it, Agrias decided to let the quip slide.

After all, she could always repay that particular debt after Rachel's little cousin was born.

"How is she?" Alma asked as she took a seat beside the holy knight and leaned in to gaze at her tiny niece.

"She's doing well, thank you. As for me, I could use a bit more sleep," Agrias answered with a smile.

"Do you need any help?"

Agrias laughed softly as she continued gently rocking Rachel in her arms. "No, it's alright, Alma. I appreciate your offer, but this is something only I can do."

When these words caused the corners of Alma's lips to curve downwards, the holy knight placed a hand on the younger girl's shoulder and gave a reassuring smile.

"I know you want to help, and, like I said, I appreciate it. But, I have a hard enough time spending time with Rachel with Alicia and Lavian around. Besides, you shouldn't trouble yourself with me when you should be preparing for your own baby," she countered with a wink as her eyes drifted towards her friend's belly.

Alma blushed as she placed her hand over her belly. A distant expression came over her features as she contemplated her child, though Agrias knew from prior experience that such musing inevitably led to thoughts of the baby's father.

Agrias did not speak to Alma, for she doubted any words she had would lessen the pain Alma felt over Izlude's death. Besides, even after learning at least some of the story, her head was still spinning. During his quest, Ramza had crossed paths with a remarkable collection of characters, many of whom had joined the young Beoulve after having first met him on opposite sides of the battlefield. Malak had tried to blackmail Ramza and later kill him, but then joined his former enemy after learning of the depravity his sister had been subject to at the hands of the man Malak had once trusted most. Likewise, Meliadoul had tried to kill Ramza after having been duped into believing he had been Izlude's killer. She had very nearly lost her own life in her quest for vengeance, and one could only imagine her astonishment when Ramza used two valuable elixirs to save her. When she had seen Marquis Elmdor transform into a Lucavi demon, and realized that Ramza's outlandish tale of Izlude's fate was true, she joined her former foe.

Had Izlude lived, might he have joined Ramza's band as well? Agrias supposed there was little point in asking, but she didn't doubt for a moment that that same question was on Alma's mind every waking moment.

The holy knight feared that she had little to offer that would comfort the Beoulve girl. After all, for all the trials and tribulations she'd been through, she still had the father of her child at her side whereas all Alma had were a handful of memories...

...including holding the savaged body of the man she loved as he breathed his last.

Having little else to offer, Agrias sidled up to Alma and used her free arm to draw Alma into a hug. Such gestures only recently having worked their way past the holy knight's once stony exterior, the embrace felt strange to her. Not for the first time, Agrias found herself wishing that Meliadoul was still a member of their company. Izlude had been her brother and, perhaps, the shared grief of his loss would have given both women what Agrias herself could not. But, the divine knight had parted company with the group before Alma had even realized she was with child.

Having served the church all her life, only to see it and her father corrupted by demonkind and then losing her brother to the Lucavi, had left the woman with a deep crisis of faith as well as two gaping holes in her heart.

Would knowing that she had an unborn nephew or niece have been the light that guided her out of that darkness?

Unable to answer her own question, Agrias simply tightened her hold on the Beoulve girl, trying to let her firm embrace say that which her tongue did not know how to put into words. After a few minutes, a small babbling caught the attention of both women. They lowered their gaze to see Rachel flailing one chubby arm in the direction of Alma's belly.

"I think Rachel is eager to meet her cousin," the holy knight opined, glad for the opening.

Alma smiled, and this time the grin did not waver, as she stroked her belly once more.

"It almost doesn't seem real," she admitted. "Even after Reis told me, there are still days I look in the mirror and wonder if she might've been mistaken."

The holy knight could understand. Apart from remembering all too well the disbelief she'd felt when she realized she was with child, there was also how, at three and a half months into her pregnancy, Alma looked nothing like Agrias had. By then, the holy knight's pregnancy had become quite noticeable...

...to put it mildly.

By the time Agrias was three and a half months along, she could no longer see her feet when standing. Between that and the swelling of her ankles, getting in and out of her boots had transformed from a simple task to one that required two men tugging at each leg. Another slight to her knightly pride occurred when she'd reached the point where fitting into her armor without risk to her precious burden became impossible. She'd had to slip into a town where the hunt for the supposed heretic was a lax affair and hire an unscrupulous armorer to rectify the situation.

The disgusting little man's solution might've cost Agrias an arm and a leg, if a bout of hormonal rage induced sword swinging on her part hadn't nearly cost him an arm and a leg.

Still, Agrias had had to part with a fair bit of coin to get her armor modified, some more for the armor to be further modified so that it could still fit her even after having given birth, and still more for the armorer to forget he'd ever had the holy knight as a customer.

Unbecoming of a holy knight it might have been, but she'd passed that night praying he'd be afflicted with an acute case of dysentery.

Eight months into her pregnancy, by which time her slow, ponderous waddling had forced her to more-or-less become a fixture upon Boco's saddle, she had gotten into an argument with Ramza. She still had no recollection what their brief feud had been about, but she was quite certain that the sight of her belly pressing against him while the rest of her stood a foot away had incensed her far more than whatever Ramza had done.

Suffice to say, Agrias was feeling faintly incredulous that Alma had barely begun to show. In fact, unless one were to observe her closely, her pregnancy could easily be missed. Agrias had heard tell that some women started showing later than others, and there were even some rare cases of women carrying a pregnancy to term with almost no visible signs. Agrias had heard the twins mention this to Alma once or twice, but the Beoulve girl was sure she wasn't going to be one of those rare exceptions.

Agrias was shaken back to reality, however, when Alma wriggled free of her grasp.

"Sorry about that," she murmured, turning her gaze towards her hands which she wrung in her lap. "I've been...well, in a daze. With everything that's happened, and the baby on the way, it's as if I stay still long enough it will all..."

The remainder of Alma's words were left unsaid, but Agrias hardly needed to hear them. The holy knight remembered feeling adrift, just as Alma had, when Ovelia had left her and the church's machinations were exposed. In the blurred weeks of numbed pain and disbelief that had occurred between these events and her night of passion with Ramza, she'd thrown herself into even the most menial tasks in the hope of keeping her thoughts at bay, lest the wall she'd erected between her emotions and her new, strange reality come crashing down upon her.

This had staunched the wound, but it wasn't until she'd realized her love for Ramza and discovered the true depths of her friendship with the Murry twins that the wound had begun to heal.

As yet, however, Alma had only her brother. And, Ramza had his hands full. So, Agrias hoped what support she could offer would be enough.

"I understand," she said. "And, you've already been a great help, Alma. I appreciate you helping with Rachel's care so I can get a little more sleep at night. But, I don't want you to put too much strain on yourself; that wouldn't be good for you or your child."

"I won't, I promise." Alma said softly as she gently stroked Rachel's tiny head and gently ruffled the child's soft reddish, blond hair, so like her mother's. "And besides, after all the trouble you, Ramza and the others have gone through to rescue me, I figure that helping however I can is the least I can do."

"Well, like I said, don't overdo it. And, there's something you need to know about what you're going through; you're not alone. A lot of us are still reeling from...everything that's happened. Take me, for example. When I arrived to escort Princess Ovelia...I guess its Queen Ovelia now, do you think I had any idea what was going to happen when I arrived at Orbonne that night? I expected a simple escort mission, not to end up in the middle of a civil war. And, when I first laid eyes on your brother, I never would have believed that I'd be mothering a child with him. For good or ill, life is full of surprises."

The holy knight had been, admittedly, rambling her way to the point, but stopped short when she noticed a mischievous grin tug at the corners of Alma's mouth.

"I'll say," she quipped in a wicked tone, gazing down at Rachel. "I was very surprised when this little one didn't turn out to be a twin...or a triplet."

Alma accentuated the point by prodding Agrias's stomach which, much to the holy knight's chagrin, was quite a bit more yielding than it had been two and a half years prior.

"Oh, very funny, I'll be sure to remember that when you're eight months along and as big as a cow," Agrias grumbled, but then calmed herself. "But, to get to the point, you're not alone here. I may not know you as well as Ramza, and neither do Alicia or Lavian, but any one of use would be glad to lend an ear if you need someone to talk to."

Alma looked as though she might argue the point, but then she gave a slow nod.

"I appreciate that," the Beoulve girl finally said after a long pause. "And, so far, I really have been doing well. Reis has been a great help in getting me ready. After everything she's done for you and Rachel, I doubt I could be in better hands."

"She's been a great help to us both," Agrias agreed. "I don't know what I would have done without her. Anyway, isn't Reis coming to check up on you today?"

"Yes, she and Beowulf will be over for dinner as well. If you don't need anything of me, I better go help Lavian and Alicia with the cooking."

"Yes, I'll be just fine. Go on and help them, Alma. Or should I say, 'Catherine'?" Agrias teased as she reached out and touched the Beoulve girl's newly dyed hair.

Not long ago, Alma's flowing locks had been the distinctive blonde color that seemed to characterize so much of the Beoulve line. However, with Ramza having been branded a heretic and Alma largely believed to be dead, it would not do for someone to recognize those distinctive flaxen tresses. Thus, she'd taken the precaution of dying her hair a deep red, and the color had proven quite flattering to the Beoulve girl. The rich red accented her rosy complexion nicely, especially since her pregnancy had left her hair much lusher.

Alma laughed and brushed at her dyed hair almost self-consciously. Although she was fond of the name Delita had chosen as her pseudonym, she still preferred to be addressed by her true name when alone with her brother and friends.

"Please, I still prefer to be called 'Alma'," the Beoulve girl insisted. "And, I'm sure my brother would still prefer to be called by his real name as well. Those names are all we really have left of father and, despite what Delita says, I fear that might be all we'll ever have to remember him by."

"I understand," Agrias admitted, her heart aching at the backhanded reminder that, even if Ramza and Alma were ultimately vindicated, they likely would not live to see it. "But, both of you will need to get used to your new names to protect your identities. If someone calls out your "name", and you don't react, people might not think anything of it the first time. But, if it happens over and over, someone might start to wonder. And, that's especially true of a place like the capital. A newly inducted noble will attract a lot of attention, and even the smallest slips can end up being gossiped about for months."

"I understand, but I stand by what I said. When it is just us, I'd still like to be called 'Alma'."

"Just be ready to be 'Catherine' when we head to the capital next month. All this subterfuge aside, I'm sure Ovelia will be wanting to see you."

"She will be wanting to see you as well. And Rachel, too. I'm sure Delita must have told her about your new daughter by now."

The instant these well-meaning words escaped her lips, Alma seemed to realize that Ovelia's close friend and former protector might react badly to the mention of Delita's name.

After all, though Ramza and Alma believed Delita might be trustworthy, Agrias was far from convinced. Where the Beoulve siblings saw the man who had once been and might still be their friend, Agrias still saw the man who had abducted Ovelia from Orbonne and, from there, had lied, manipulated, and killed his way to the throne...

...not to mention into Ovelia's wedding bed.

The corners of Agrias's mouth drew downward at the thought. Even during the campaign against the Lucavi and their human puppets, her former charge had weighed heavily upon her mind. Between wondering where the then-princess was and how she might be faring and fearing what might befall her now that she'd been ensnared by Delita's web of deceit, not to mention the yawning chasm of guilt and recrimination that had opened in her heart at having failed twice to rescue her from Draclau, the holy knight suspected she'd nearly driven herself to madness.

Perhaps, if not for that fateful night in Ramza's arms, she might very well have fallen into that chasm, never to emerge again.

But, ultimately, Agrias had found her charge again.

During a stopover in Zeltennia, the group caught word that Ovelia tended to pray in an isolated ruin nearby. Agrias hurriedly threw on a voluminous cloak, summoned Alicia and Lavian, and sought out the young woman who Goltana - and, she suspected, Delita - sought to use as a figurehead in their bid for the throne.

Perhaps it had been the suddenness of this discovery, or maybe the effects of her pregnancy had left her judgment askew, but the holy knight was forced to admit that she'd had no particular plan for that venture. Even though she was well away from Goltana's stronghold, stealing Ovelia away would be far too dangerous with Delita always hovering over her shoulder. What's more, if Agrias were recognized as she made her way to the ruins, it could spell disaster, especially since her advancing pregnancy would preclude the possibility of fighting free or fleeing. Still, perhaps owing to the child stirring under her ribs, Agrias wanted, at least, for Ovelia to know that she was not forgotten and that, though they yet lurked in the shadows, her friends still lived and would come for her when they could.

However, their reunion was brief and did little more than rub salt into old wounds.

While escorting Ovelia to Lionel Castle, unwittingly spiriting her from the grasp of one captor into the hands of another, the holy knight had sensed that Ovelia, sequestered all her life in some remote corner of the realm or another, had been charmed by her handsome captor. And, when the two women had met again, Agrias regarded it as a troubling sign that Ovelia had waved aside the effrontery of Delita addressing her by name. Her charge's expression when she regarded the man who later became her husband, a curious mingling of affection and wariness, had caused the holy knight's heart to sink.

She'd wanted to run Delita through on the spot.

But, at seven months pregnant, she knew she'd be no match for Delita. And, though Alicia and Lavian had accompanied her, she'd doubted the twins could prevail against so powerful and wily a foe.

Thus, Agrias had had little choice but to trust that Delita would leave Ovelia unharmed until another chance came to spirit the princess away from her captors. She'd given him a dire warning of the consequences of harming Ovelia, which barely made the Black Ram lieutenant blink, and then offered the princess what little protection she could.

A dagger.

Against a depraved duke with thousands of swords at his beck and call, not to mention a man whose conniving wits made him the more dangerous enemy by far, all she could offer for protection was a sliver of iron.

Despite tireless effort on the part of Ramza and the Murry twins, the following night had been solemn and somber for the holy knight who had, once again, been cheated out of rescuing her charge. Worse than that, cheated out of saving a friend and seeing her being lured further and further into Delita's web of deceit and whatever manner of disaster lay in the offing.

Agrias had forgotten none of this, but she had the wherewithal to rein in her anger. She turned to face Alma, who looked quite abashed at her misstep, and the holy knight raised one hand in a conciliatory gesture.

"Alma," she began in a guarded tone, "since it's just us, what manner of man is Delita?"

The Beoulve girl's abashment promptly gave way to perplexity.

"Didn't Ramza tell you about him?" she asked, puzzled.

"He did, but I was wondering what you have to say about him," Agrias replied, once more seeking the elusive words she needed. "I know you and Ramza are willing to trust him, but, after everything he's done, I'm worried. And, not just about us or even Rachel, but about Ovelia too. So, tell me, what manner of man is he?"

Alma still looked taken aback by the request, and the less-than-subtle reminder that Delita might yet withdraw the protection he'd offered. Still, after a long, contemplative silence, the Beoulve girl finally spoke.

"Ramza and I loved Delita very much," she began, her eyes misting at the reminder of simpler times. "Ramza probably already told you how our father took in him and his sister, Teta, after their parents died of plague."

Agrias nodded, and Alma continued.

"Most of my memories of those days are of Teta. She was my best friend. Father liked her as well, and even used his influence to get her enrolled in the same school as me so we wouldn't have to be apart."

Here, Alma's nostalgic expression darkened with sadness and a rare hint of anger.

"But, even his influence wasn't enough to change the minds of some of the other girls," she continued. "They always teased her for being of low birth, day in and day out. And, not just behind her back either, but to her face whenever they were feeling bold enough. And, as if that wasn't enough, there were the teachers. They didn't believe Teta belonged there and they'd take even the smallest excuse to single her out for humiliation. But, she never once complained. Just the opposite, in fact. Even with all of that went on there, and all the pain it must've caused her, she kept her shoulders squared and her head held high."

As she'd relived those memories, Alma's already misting eyes had begun to brim with tears and she had to pause to tamp down what might've otherwise become a bout of weeping.

"I'm sorry," she said, her words punctuated by a sniffle. "I was just remembering when she...died. Even after all this time, it still hurts to think about it."

As if having Izlude's death on her mind at all hours wasn't enough, Agrias mused, furious at herself. This was a mistake. I should not have asked when she's still so fragile from...everything.

Almost as though sensing the holy knight's thoughts, Alma shook her head furiously and dove right back into her tale.

"Delita spent more time with Ramza than me, but Teta spoke of him often. After they lost their parents, before father took them in, he worked tirelessly to support her. For a long time, they were each other's whole world. Even after Delita become Ramza's best friend, and Teta mine, they were never apart for longer than they had to be. When she went with me to that school and Delita went with Ramza to the Gariland Royal Military Academy, they wrote each other every day. Ramza wrote to me too, about how Delita outworked all of his classmates and excelled in everything he tried. Everybody besides us and father seemed to hold it against him, but he always wrote that Teta's letters made him feel better."

Having been to academies like the one in Gariland, and knowing how much of an upset it must've been for a commoner to win a place amongst the elite ranks of Ivalice's men-at-arms, Agrias found herself impressed that a few letters could counterbalance all that scorn.

But, then again, Delita would not have claimed the bloodied crown if he'd had a thin skin.

Still, these stories did help Agrias to paint a more complete picture of Ovelia's new consort...though she would not consider him Ovelia's 'husband' until he'd earned that sentiment.

Regardless, she could tell that Delita was clearly a man with great drive, for he would have to be in order to even graduate from the academy, where his roots could be so readily used against him. And, from what she had been told of his relationship with Teta, his capacity for deceit and murder might not all-encompassing.

Delita had invoked Teta's name as his reason for fighting. He'd also intimated that she was how he'd managed to escape death at Fort Ziekden.

Did he consider her memory a fitting reason to, however surreptitiously, do right by his former friends and their companions?

Or, was her tragic death simply something he used as an excuse to justify the unscrupulous path he'd traced from an obscure farmstead in Gallione to the royal castle in Lesalia?

Loathe though she was to admit it, Agrias simply did not know. On the one hand, Delita's love for Teta might mean he would keep Ovelia and the small band of fugitives safe, both out of loyalty to his old friends and out of respect for his sister's memory. But, on the other hand, Goltana had thought Delita loyal and trustworthy right up until the Black Ram lieutenant had ran the old duke through.

"I still remember when Ramza and Delita returned home after graduating from the academy," Alma went on, shaking Agrias back to the present. "Even back then, Ramza hated fighting. He was good at it, but he always held back because he hated killing others, even an enemy."

Agrias nodded gravely, remembering her beloved confessing that much to her not long after she'd first seen that there was an outstanding warrior under that boyish frame and babyish face. The holy knight hadn't reveled in bloodshed either, but she'd long ago reconciled herself to the sad truth that duty and circumstance often conspired to deprive one of feasible alternatives.

More than once, she'd found herself wondering if Delita might be of a different persuasion. Taking another's life in battle was one thing, winning the trust of another and then killing them while they were unarmed and unsuspecting was quite another.

"Ramza barely scraped through graduation while Delita graduated with honors," Alma went on, a hint of a smile valiantly trying to take shape on her face. "I remember seeing them as they came through the castle gate. They didn't write about how they'd done, but I could tell the moment I saw them that the news was good because of this childhood tradition they had between them. They always carried with them this black chess king, from father's ivory set. They'd always pass back and forth between them whenever one of them won a victory. "King of the Moment", they called it."

Now, that half-formed smile did win dominance on Alma's face, though any mirth it might've held was lost in the battle.

"Seems ironic now, doesn't it?" she asked rhetorically. "But, I remember Ramza tossing it to Delita and saying "King's to you, Delita." I think Ramza wanted to do that sooner, not to mention say in his letters how well Delita had done, but Delita must've talked him into holding off until Teta could see. And, she was thrilled."

That particular tidbit had surprised Agrias, since Ramza had never mentioned it. But, now that she thought about it, she did recall one rather strange night during the pursuit of the kidnapped Ovelia. Ramza had, during his watch, fished something out of his pocket and spent long moments staring at it, almost entranced. Agrias hadn't bothered to ask what it was, but she now found herself wondering if it might've been the same chess king that Alma had spoken of.

Perhaps Ramza had won it back before that fateful day at Fort Ziekden and, upon seeing that his lost friend was still alive, found himself wondering what convoluted path fate had traced in separating and then reuniting them.

What's more, after having parted ways with Ovelia in Zeltennia, she'd noticed that Delita had been eyeing her intently and, as she'd made her way back towards the city, he'd followed her. Already suspecting that crossing paths with Delita would herald a confrontation, one hand was reaching for her sword while the other, guided more by instinct than thought, clutched her belly protectively.

Yet, strangely, Delita had made no move to attack.

Instead, he'd let out a chuckle that made the holy knight's skin crawl and whispered something which, upon reflection, might have been "King's to you, Ramza."

Still incensed by the Black Ram lieutenant's actions - indeed, by his very presence - Agrias had been too flustered to give much thought to his parting words. Now, however, she found herself beginning to wonder. Could he have, in that one glance, discerned that she was with child, and by whom? If so, and he'd managed to gauge just how far off she was from giving birth, it would explain how the newly crowned king had known Ramza had a newborn child and how he'd just "happened" to find the small band of fugitives during Rachel's first hours of life.

Then too, there was his choice of words. He spoke almost as if he'd been congratulating the absent Ramza, and in the same fashion he and Ramza had done in their youth, no less.

That fell far short of proving Delita could be trusted, but the barest sliver of doubt was now prodding at the back of Agrias's mind.

"Was giving the boys that chess king your father's idea?" she asked, though somewhat distractedly.

"Yes, but not in the way you think," Alma went on, redness suddenly gathering about her cheeks. "Back when we were still little, before Delita and Teta's parents had died, the rest of the set got ruined. He kept the black king, since it was the only intact piece, probably because the set had been a gift from Count Orlandu."

"The rest of the set was ruined? What happened to it?"

"I did...I was teething."

The holy knight was left gaping for a long moment as she turned that image over in her head. Ultimately, she sensed an illicit quiver in her lower lip and felt a spasming in her larynx that, in due course, soon erupted into explosive laughter. Alma made a pretense of pouting before she joined in the hilarity. Once Agrias had wiped away enough mirthful tears to see, she could not help but notice that, though the Beoulve girl's guffawing had died down to breathless giggles, a smile yet lingered on her face.

It was a tired smile, more nostalgic than happy, but it was a smile nonetheless.

Yet, even that much was enough to make Alma look truly radiant. And, seeing that her efforts had pierced the gloom that had hung over the Beoulve girl since learning she was carrying her dead beloved's child had done much to gladden Agrias's heart.

After getting her breath, Alma continued with her story.

"Teta's death changed all of us," she said, her tone solemn but without the weight of grief held too long in abeyance. "Ramza lost his faith in Zalbag and Dycedarg, since they'd promised to save Teta and went back on their word. I was left alone, almost as alone as I felt when Izlude died. I missed Teta so much, I thought Delita had died with her, Ramza never came home, and I couldn't speak to my 'brothers' once I'd guessed what must've happened. As for Delita...I don't doubt for a minute that Teta's death changed him and I won't bother pretending I know what's going on in his head or what happened between him and Ovelia. But, I believe that he's sincere about wanting to help us. He could have handed us over to the church, or at least leaked rumors that we were alive so that the church would be too busy chasing us to interfere with his plans. Not only that, but he's had plenty of chances to turn you and Ramza in during the war. But, he hasn't done any of that."

Here, Alma paused for a moment and then looked Agrias square in the eye. Despite the redness and the profusion of tear tracks about her eyes, the holy knight saw iron determination in those sky blue orbs.

"I'm not saying I approve of what you and the others say that Delita has done," she prefaced. "But, I cannot bring myself to believe that he's the same as Larg, Goltana, Ruvelia, or Marcel. Maybe I'm right, maybe I'm wrong. But, he's still a friend, and I believe I can trust him."

For a long moment, Agrias was silent. When she'd first met Alma back in Lesalia, she would never have guessed that the cheerful headstrong girl who'd blackmailed Ramza into taking her along on his ill-fated hunt for the Virgo stone would be possessed of such strong conviction. But, then again, her brother had also surprised Agrias time and again, not the smallest way being how he had helped create the small treasure now squirming in her arms. What's more, as she'd coaxed out more and more stories of the Beoulve girl's time with Izlude, Agrias was forced to concede that Alma had shown a great deal of courage in her bold, if somewhat harebrained, scheme to win her freedom.

No less surprising, Alma's defense of Delita was quite spirited. She'd offered quite a few insights that helped Agrias paint a more complete picture of the man who held their futures in his hand, but without making excuses or rationalizations for his disreputable acts.

Whether the newly crowned king deserved such an advocate, however, still nagged at the holy knight. More than his wits or his strength of arms, his ability to charm would-be allies had likely been his greatest asset during his journey to the throne.

How many who would have spoken so vehemently in his defense later found his blade sheathed in their backs?

"Even if that means putting your child at risk?" Agrias asked, pointedly gesturing at Alma's belly.

The Beoulve girl winced at these blunt words, but, to her credit, did not shy away.

"What choice do we have?" she asked rhetorically. "Without our new identities, Ramza and I can't even go out in public without causing a riot. And, without those pardons, you and the others can't either. So, that leaves us with, what? Living on the run? Sneaking our way to Ordalia or Romanda and living in exile? Going to sleep each night wondering if we'll wake up in chains, or we'll even wake up at all? No. I'd rather take my chances with Delita than have my child live like that."

Here, Alma paused as she drew in a steadying breath and meditatively drummed her fingers over her belly.

"So much of what Teta went through, including her death, was because she was born the daughter of a poor farmer," she said, her tone never wavering despite revisiting such a painful subject. "I don't want my child to go through such hardship because his or her uncle just happened to be a convenient scapegoat for a bunch of corrupt nobles and clergymen."

Agrias, after a moment of silence, responded to this rejoinder by raising one hand in the gesture of a fencer acknowledging a hit. Once more, Alma's words - and, more importantly, the conviction behind them - had impressed her. The holy knight still had lingering doubts about the man who had professed to be the instrument of their salvation, especially since any duplicity on his part could put Ramza, Rachel, Ovelia, and the others in dire peril. But, hearing both surviving Beoulves vouch for their former friend, even after everything he'd done, had caused some of Ramza's contagious optimism to seep into her fears.

Agrias could not share Alma's convictions - at least, not yet - but, she could respect them.

Maybe the same luck that had seen her and her baby through countless battles and a journey into hell would still bear out Alma's claims. And, even if it didn't, the small band of fugitives was ready for such an eventuality.

"Delita's very lucky to have you and Ramza to vouch for him," she said at last, hoping the newly crowned king would not judge such gifts to be expendable. "I really hope you're right about him."

"So do I," Alma answered softly.

After a moment's hesitation, the Beoulve girl reached over and took Agrias's hand. The smooth skin, unmarred by calluses, felt almost foreign in the holy knight's grip. But, after a moment, Agrias found herself giving the smaller hand a comradely squeeze. A small gesture it might've been, but Agrias nonetheless found herself believing that their rambling talk had helped to remind the Beoulve girl that, despite the cruel hand fate had dealt her, she was not alone.

Maybe Agrias could not help Alma through her grief the way Meliadoul would have, but maybe what Agrias could do would be enough.

"I'm glad we had this talk," Alma said finally, a hint of a smile once more on her lips. "And, I know I don't know you nearly as well as Ramza or the twins, but I think my brother is in good hands. And, so is my niece."

"I'm glad I could help," Agrias replied, her gaze turning back to Rachel when she noticed the baby give a small yawn. "And, as I said, if you need someone to talk to, I'll be here."

"I'd appreciate that. And, I stand by what I said earlier. I'd be happy to help out with Rachel. After all, I'll be needing the practice."

"I know. Anyway, you should be running along now. I'll be in the kitchen to help as soon as I put Rachel to bed."

"Of course." Alma agreed as she got up and headed for the door. "See you then, Agrias."

"You too, Alma."

With that, the Beoulve girl gave one last appreciated glance at Agrias and then passed through the door, gently closing it behind her. By this time, Rachel had drifted off to sleep and, after gently pressing her lips to the baby's forehead, Agrias rose and made her way to the cradle. Once more, despite the morass of fabric dragging about her feet, she carried her tiny daughter across the expanse of stone and carpeting without incident and gently deposited the baby into the cradle. Agrias kissed the baby's forehead once more, pulled the blanket over her and then turned to make her way to the kitchen.

Then, as she took one step away from the cradle, she found the long dress finally slipping underfoot. With a sudden lurch, she went toppling to the floor.

Agrias landed in a heap upon the plush carpet with a muffled crash, though this was more than enough to rouse the baby from her nap.

Rather than a lung splitting wail, however, Rachel reacted to the spectacle by going into a fit of giggling.

Normally, Agrias would've found her heart melting at that sound. But, with both her knightly and mother's pride throbbing along with the rest of her, the holy knight found a scowl overtaking her features at the sound of Rachel's chortling.

"You got that from your father's side of the family, didn't you?" Agrias grumbled. "Well, I'll remember that when you're old enough to wear these blasted things."

**A/N: Ok, now the party settles at Lionel as their permanent home. I got this idea from the fan-made sequel of FFT I saw on YouTube called 'Journey of the Five' which I highly recommend for FFT fans. Once again, I would like to thank my co-writer and editor, Falchion1984 for his help and inspiration in keeping this story going. :)**


	8. Veils of Secrecy

"You are...certain of this, Ramza?" Beowulf asked, his tone grave.

"I'm afraid so," Ramza confirmed, sounding somewhat winded after frantically counting the stones for what felt like the thousandth time.

The two men were seated in the dining hall of Lionel Castle, at one end of the expansive table which, owing to the mass of cobwebs blotting out the light from the nearest window, was shrouded in darkness. Much like the rest of the foreboding fortress which the small band of fugitives now called home, the dining hall was decidedly understated...

...at least, that was how a charitable person would describe it. Anyone else would call it gloomy and dismal.

Since Draclau was both a soldier and a clergyman, it was hardly surprising that the room where he took his meals had none of the gilded adornments or lavish decorations that were so plentiful in the homes of Ivalice's other power brokers. Most of those, knowing that an ostentatious dining hall was as potent a way to showcase their wealth and status as a table laden with fine food and wine, would have such extravagances as golden candelabras, silken tapestries, marble statuary, plush carpeting, and all manner of profligacy.

Ramza had never enjoyed such tableaus of unrestrained avarice, but Draclau's ruthlessly austere tastes weren't much of an improvement.

There was a long oak table, of distinctly unremarkable craftsmanship, that would seat a modest twenty people. Judging by the deep indentations in the faded and threadbare carpet beneath, it had been rare for the hall to see even that many guests. The chairs, none of which were upholstered, were hard and uncomfortable, and the wood was splintering in places due to the neglect the castle had suffered...or the Murry twins' overzealous polishing; there was some disagreement on that point.

The rest of the room did little to counterbalance the homely furnishings. Whereas it was not uncommon for the walls of such halls to be as crowded with tapestries as to dizzy a visitor, there had been little to either disrupt the monotony of the bare mortared stone or to alleviate the chill of the cold rock. Only a handful of tapestries had adorned the walls, but an infestation of moths had gotten to them prior to the arrival of Ramza and his friends. What was left of these neither insulated nor brightened the room, especially since all had been depictions of the supposed life of Saint Ajora. Such scenes from the false legend which had been on display included the infant Ajora, standing despite being but heartbeats old, before a well, from which wafted a noxious plume of green smoke. Those woven people who stood around the infant gasped in amazement or had prostrated themselves in humble worship while, further away, a huddle of people, each with a ladle of the well's tainted water in hand, had been gasping their last. And, as if that wasn't enough, there had been another tapestry depicting Ajora's execution, the artist having been quite overzealous in portraying the grisly scene in truly nauseating detail.

Needless to say, Lionel Castle's new tenets were not eager to have that particular "art" leering down at them through every meal.

Removing the tapestries, however, had caused the already persistent chill in the room to deepen, the drafts of cold air now becoming icy tendrils that brushed against the skin like malicious probing fingers. This made the cavernous but nearly empty hall seem all the drearier, and the almost funereal silence had a strange way of discouraging speech and laughter and any other sound of life...

...which, coupled with half the room seeming pitch dark, made it perfect for this clandestine meeting.

When Beowulf and Reis had arrived at the castle, after using some clever tactics to ensure that no one in the nearby city realized either their identities or destination, the young Beoulve had surreptitiously informed the former Templar that they needed to speak privately.

Being no stranger to either battle or intrigue, Beowulf had quickly gleaned that, whatever Ramza needed to speak to him about, the young Beoulve considered it to be of the gravest urgency.

Upon reaching this shadowy corner of the dining hall, Beowulf understood why.

Scattered before them on the expansive dining table, the true cause of the War of the Lions rested with seemingly innocuousness upon the freshly polished wood.

12 crystals, each of varying colors and cut in exotic styles, and each emblazoned with the faintly glowing sign of a house of the evening sky.

12 crystals that had driven once pious men mad with greed and hatred, and which evicted their very souls in favor of Lucavi demons; but which had also breathed life back into the dead, revived wondrous machinery which had laid dormant for centuries, and had undone the curse that transformed Reis into a dragon.

The holy stones. The twelve holy stones...

...and one was missing.

Following the defeat of Velias, as Ramza and his group continued their search for Alma and Vormav, they'd begun to hear troubling rumors from the various taverns where they sought sustenance and rest after hard days of travel. Apart from the rumors of Lionel's new liege lord, which had led to Reis's abduction and the battle against Celebrant Bremondt, there were also tales of monsters haunting the mines of Gollund, a mysterious vigilante targeting the Church of Glabados's wealth, Hokuten deserters turning to banditry, and a fearsome "iron sentinel" which guarded long lost secrets on the cursed isle of Nelveska. More on an impulse than anything else, Ramza had chosen to begin by investigating the rumors in Gollund and, much to his surprise, he came away from this little detour with a former Templar and a holy dragon in tow...

...not to mention a holy stone that had gone unfound by his band, Vormav's cohorts, and curious explorers all.

After that, and despite his near constant fear for the still-captive Alma as well as the complications of Agrias's advancing pregnancy, he had chased down these rumors with great fervor. And, in so doing, he had discovered the holy stones bearing the signs of Aquarius, Cancer, and, much to his surprise, Serpentarius, a thirteenth stone that had gone unmentioned in either the now questionable account of Ajora Glabados's life or the Germonique Scriptures.

Yet, when Ramza had compared the signs of the stones reportedly carried by Saint Ajora and the Zodiac Braves to the signs of the stones he'd recovered, he'd realized that one was missing from the set.

One holy stone, which could undo death and summon forth demonkind into the world, was unaccounted for.

"I can see why you needed to speak with me so urgently," Beowulf whispered, conscious that Agrias, Alma, Reis, and the twins were close by preparing dinner for the small group while Rad, judging by the commotion in the kitchen, was up to his usual tricks.

"Hands off the leg, you rogue!", Alicia or Lavian (Ramza couldn't tell which) chastised the dark knight.

Ordinarily, the young Beoulve would've gone in and tried to set Rad straight, but he decided to let these latest shenanigans slide. In fact, Ramza had been almost grateful for the dark knight unwittingly preventing his fellow outcasts from hearing this furtive discussion. Though he didn't doubt for a minute that they'd want to help, Agrias had Rachel to worry about and Alma was surely no less encumbered by her own child, still taking shape in her womb, and the ever present pain of having lost her baby's father to Hashmalum's claws. He was also hesitant to ask Rad, Lavian, and Alicia for help, since involving them in this matter would likely mean leaving his family unguarded when the time came to search for the errant holy stone.

And, of course, the twins would never keep a secret from Agrias.

That notion almost brought a smile to the young Beoulve's face, striking a contrast with the evidence of too many sleepless nights which marred his still youthful features. Before Agrias's pregnancy, the young Beoulve and the holy knight often fought shoulder to shoulder in their battles against the worst of mankind and demonkind. The seasoned holy knight had been nonplussed at first by the impulsive Beoulve, and Ramza vividly remembered how she'd lambasted him for charging to Mustadio's rescue when, as sometimes happened, Ramza's dearly held instincts to defend the helpless goaded him into running headlong into terrain which favored the enemy. Over time, however, as the tension between the two had eased, fighting together had become common practice with the pair and, later, had gone from an arrangement that Agrias barely tolerated to one she approved of.

When Ramza had left Agrias and Ovelia behind at Lionel Castle to rescue Mustadio's father, Agrias had said she believed Ramza might have potential as a knight of the Lionsguard and that she planned to give him a recommendation...

...and, not for the first time, Ramza blushed as he recalled what she'd given him instead.

Still, he shook himself back to attention, grimly contemplating the errant holy stone. Having seen what they could do, for both good and evil, the prospect of what might happen if the stray holy stone found its way into the wrong hands weighed heavily upon him. He had to do something to prevent such a disaster, especially since the War of the Lions had left Ivalice in so fragile a state.

What that something might be, however, proved elusive.

His new identity and the pardons for his other companions were still being crafted and, without them, Ramza could not even venture outside the castle by daylight without creating a panic...and a renewed interest in his demise amongst his remaining enemies. At the same time, however, he was reluctant to risk the lives of his companions, especially when such a search might cause them to run afoul of a newly awakening Lucavi demon. Yet, in spite of that, Ramza knew he could not ignore a holy stone which might even now be seeking a host for the demon within.

The young Beoulve suspected there might be an alternative, some solution he had overlooked, and yet he could not find it.

Having gone for weeks on end with only a modicum of sleep, coupled with the combined anxieties of his unexpected fatherhood, worry for his emotionally scarred sister and her child, and the always looming prospect that Delita's offer might prove less-than-genuine, the young Beoulve was utterly exhausted. Not just weary to his very bones, but his thoughts seemed to vanish into a fog bank whenever he contemplated where the missing stone might be and how to find it.

Above all, however, his heavy heart recoiled at the notion of seeing still more bloodshed after watching the atrocity that was the War of the Lions.

Finding his own wits askew, he had waited for Beowulf to arrive so that he might seek the former Templar's counsel.

As he studied Beowulf's features, however, Ramza found himself second guessing his decision.

The former Templar spent a long moment regarding the holy stones, his brow furrowed in deep, grim contemplation. Unsurprisingly, his gaze lingered pointedly on the Cancer stone, which he'd used to lift the curse on Reis and return her to her true form. This gesture served to drive home just how little time Beowulf and Reis had had for their love since Bremondt's jealousy had driven the delusional celebrant to act against the couple. Beowulf seemed to catch his train of thought, for he shook his head and waved away the words Ramza had been about to speak.

"You were right to bring this to my attention, Ramza," he assured. "And, if you will pardon my brusqueness, let us dispense with the words which are undoubtedly on your lips at this very moment. Even if you hadn't told me about the stray stone, Reis and I would have offered our services the moment we realized it was missing. As I have said before, Reis and I owe our happiness and our very lives to you, and we knew what we were getting into when we decided to repay that debt by joining your quest. So, let us discuss the matter at hand, shall we?"

Ramza, more than a bit surprised by the rejoinder, nodded his assent. Not for the first time, he found himself amazed at the depth of loyalty his companions had shown him, especially those who, like Beowulf and Reis, could have easily walked away from the supposed heretic and gone back to their old lives. Yet, in spite of that, each and all had stood by him right up until the final confrontation with Altima. Even those who had parted company with him after the explosive finale of their war with the Lucavi had only done so at Ramza's insistence, and, even then, they had made their departures with great reluctance.

The young Beoulve could not help but feel his heart glow. And, no less important, he found himself thinking that the former Templar might very well be able to help with this situation.

"Alright, then," he intoned simply. "But, I'd like this to stay between us for the time being. Agrias and Alma have enough on their minds as it is, and I don't like the idea of leaving them unguarded, which is likely if the others become involved."

"Even if that is so, it might not stop them from wanting to help," Beowulf pointed out. "I agree that Agrias and Alma had best stay here, but they might very well be able to mind your new home in our absence, even without Rad and the twins." Here, he paused for a moment, a sly grin crossing his features.

"In fact, I dare say they would insist upon it."

At these words, Ramza found a ghost of a smile tugging at his features as another memory came back to him. When he, Mustadio, Rad, and his former classmates from the Hokuten academy set out from Lionel to travel to Goug, Agrias had made a point of placing Lavian and Alicia under Ramza's command. At the time, this had been because she'd found it a little too convenient that Draclau had been so willing to protect them from the Hokuten and the Baert Trading Company, not to mention his possessing a holy stone and showing a little too much interest in Mustadio's tale of a second stone being discovered in Goug. Sensing that the cardinal's amicable words might conceal sinister motives, and that any threat to the then-Princess Ovelia would come from within the castle rather than from without, Agrias had insisted that the Murry twins would do the most good at Ramza's side.

Perhaps she would make that same assertion a second time?

The thought caused a hint of a nostalgic smile to tug at the corners of his mouth, not just at the memory but at the strange propensity his life had had of late to come full circle.

Meeting Delita again, and coming strangely close to renewing their old friendship, though both men had changed so much since their youth together. Returning to Lionel Castle, though as master rather than guest or invader, and now, possibly setting out again to perform a final service in defense of the people of Ivalice, who would consider his death a cause for celebration.

It struck a strange contrast, how his history seemed to repeat itself even as he himself changed...

...and, in more ways than one.

Ramza nodded, as much to his own thoughts as to Beowulf's statement, while his gaze drifted earthwards and he caught sight of his own reflection in the metal plate before him.

As sometimes happened nowadays, it took him a moment to realize that the face staring back at him was his own.

The young man in the reflective metal ran his hands through his newly dyed hair. Much like Alma, Ramza's distinctive flaxen tresses had been colored a deep red, lest the blonde locks that so characterized House Beoulve attract unwanted attention. Apart from the new color, he had also allowed his hair to grow out a bit. Rather than the short cropped, boyish locks, Ramza's hair was now long enough to brush the nape of his neck, though still not quite as long as he had worn it in his youth. The band of stubble on his upper lip hinted that he was also attempting to grow out a mustache to complete his disguise by the time he, Alma, and the others left for Lesalia to answer the new king's summons...

...at least, that was the reason Ramza would give when asked. The truth likely had more to do with the numerous times when, while visiting a tavern for sustenance and information, the barmaids would start pinching his cheeks and teasingly ask if he was old enough to enter such an establishment.

That recurring annoyance had been a veritable staple of Ramza's life following his less-than-auspicious graduation from the Hokuten academy, and one which his comrades never failed to find amusing.

The young Beoulve had always grumbled about the embarrassment caused by his inordinately youthful features. But, when Agrias, by then his lover, had jokingly referred to herself as a cradle-snatcher, Ramza had decided that enough was enough.

Lifting the plate and using it as an impromptu mirror, he gave his altered features a cursory examination. Thus far, his efforts to look less boyish hadn't satisfied him. He still had the rounded cheeks that the barmaids were so fond of pinching and, when measured against those, his burgeoning mustache looked more akin to the sort a stage actor would pluck out of a costume drawer to wear during a performance.

Yet, the eyes that stared back at him, despite their childish broadness, belied the illusion.

Eyes that had seen much of what depravities humans were capable of inflicting upon each other, even without demonkind pulling their strings, and which silently longed for the most innocent of the Beoulve line to grow up in a better world.

Grumbling sourly, he moved to set down the plate when a commotion from the kitchen nearly made him drop it.

"Away with you, away with you!" the voices of Lavian and Alicia clamored in unison, though their tones sounded less-than-remonstrative.

Predictably, a disheveled Rad was bodily shoved out of the kitchen, his face spattered with a mingling of reddish sauce and, what Ramza suspected, was a smattering of lip rouge.

"Let me guess," the young Beoulve began sourly, "You were looking for some action? Double or nothing?"

"And, I found it," Rad confirmed, approaching the seated pair with his customary swagger. "What else can I say? Its fun when people have to find...interesting ways to cover their bets."

Ramza let his face fall into his upturned hand, blowing out an aggravated breath between clenched teeth. Rad was a brave warrior and a good friend, but his proclivities had caused Ramza no end of aggravation.

And, the fact that Lavian and Alicia had no compunction against joining Rad in his disreputable games didn't help matters either.

The young Beoulve supposed he hardly had much cause to be critical, however. After all, a scoundrel Rad might be, but his mischief had produced no children born out of wedlock.

"Alright, let's hear it," Ramza grumbled, bracing himself for the inevitable.

"What else can I say?" Rad asked rhetorically, never one to miss such an opening. "The best way to catch a man's eye is with leg, breast, or rack. And, the twins' are exquisite!"

The young Beoulve, idly wondering if his late father had had moments like this, lowered his head to an empty section of table and began banging his already throbbing pate into the unyielding wood. Beowulf matched his disapproval, but without the melodramatics.

"Oh, don't do that!" Rad chastised, sounding somewhere near apologetic before his usual smirk reappeared. "Makes me feel almost as bad as when the girls accused me of peeping last night."

It is a mark of all good commanders to know that unwinnable battles are best retreated from, and therefore Ramza threw up his hands and worked valiantly to not hear Rad's talk about how he'd been a perfect gentleman when carousing with the twins and how he'd 'scored'.

"So, what's got you two huddled in the dark?" he finally asked, his tone suddenly turning serious as his gaze pointedly drifted towards the holy stones.

Shaken from his preoccupation with not being preoccupied with the mischief Rad and the twins got into behind closed doors, Ramza took a moment to regain his composure and mulled over just how much to reveal about his discovery. Rad, for all his unsavory talk earlier, was a reliable companion and could keep a secret when needed. But, at the same time, if Rad came away from this meeting looking less than his usual roguish self, it might raise questions that Ramza would prefer went unasked.

He sent a quick glance in Beowulf's direction and saw the former Templar nod gravely. Ramza, in turn, let out a sigh of resignation, gestured for Rad to keep his voice down, and revealed his discovery.

The dark knight's face blanched and his normally chattering mouth parted in a gape of unmitigated shock.

"This...isn't some ploy to get back at me for… well, you know, right?" he asked softly, a hint of pleading in his tone.

Ramza shook his head. "No, it isn't. One of the stones is missing, I'm sure of it. It has to be the Pieces stone. It's mentioned in both the "official" account of Saint Ajora's battle with the Lucavi and the Germonique Scriptures. But, none of these stones have the matching sign. I thought we would find it when we went down into Midnight's Deep, but I never expected to find the hidden thirteenth stone, Serpentarius, instead."

Midnight's Deep had, indeed, been a nest of surprises. Not only had Ramza found a hitherto unknown holy stone, but he had wrested it from what appeared to the Elidibs, one of the most famed mages in Ivalician history, believed to have been lost fighting the Romandan armies during the Fifty Years War.

And, as if that wasn't enough, Ramza had secured this prize with the help of Byblos, a demon who had, for reasons unknown, broken ranks with the rest of his kind.

Byblos's motives were an enigma, as was how Elidibs had come to possess a holy stone. However, Ramza suspected that, if Elidibs had planned to leave the depths and bring both his arcane knowledge and his new-found demonic powers to bear against mankind, then the detour through the dark, deep dungeon had been worth every stumble.

"Where could it be?" Rad asked, seating himself next to the young Beoulve. "I was certain one of Vormav's minions must have had it. I mean, apart from Taurus, Aquarius, Cancer, Libra, Virgo, and Serpentarius they had all the rest."

"I thought so too, Rad. But, I was wrong."

At this pronouncement, a silence fell over the group, heavy and oppressive. Undoubtedly the dark knight and the former Templar, like Ramza, were grimly contemplating the implications of this discovery. Rad, whose pale stricken features contrasted starkly with his ebon armor, kept making furtive glances toward the kitchen door. Whether this was to ensure that the women had not heard what had been revealed or because he regretted leaving his rude games with the twins, none could say. Beowulf, remarkably calm by comparison, steepled his fingers and regarded the stones with a look of intense concentration.

Ramza, he suspected, looked like a mess, for he heard Beowulf address him with a concerned voice. "You're worried, aren't you?" he asked.

"I'd be lying if I said no," Ramza confessed, rubbing at eyes which were more red than blue. "Even with Altima gone, there is still a chance the Lucavi could return if even one stone should fall into the wrong hands."

"So what do you propose we do, Ramza?" Rad asked. "The stone could be anywhere, and we can't exactly go hunting for it before Delita comes through... _if_ he comes through. For all we know, the Pisces stone could have been picked up by someone who has no idea what it's capable of."

"Hardly anywhere," Beowulf interceded. "Though the tale of the holy stones is well known, the stones themselves are not. Remember, you, Agrias, and Ovelia did not even recognize the Scorpio stone until Draclau told you what it was. To the untrained eye, they would seem no more than crystals cut in exotic designs, fit for high art or to con a fair bit of coin out of one foolish enough to mistake crystal for true gemstone. So, whoever finds the Pieces stone may likely try to sell it for a generous sum. Many nobles, even those who are less-than-susceptible to being conned, will surely pay good coin to have it in their collection. With all the nobles who were killed, imprisoned, exiled, or left impoverished as a result of the war, there are only so many inclined to purchase exotic trifles, so the stone's discoverers should have only a few prospects."

"That's exactly what I'm afraid of!" Ramza intoned gravely, fearfully contemplating just who would be the natural choice amongst those 'few prospects'.

And, indeed, it seemed horrifically obvious now. Who else was there to buy such an exotic trifle now that so many of the myriad former power brokers in Ivalice were either dead, imprisoned, exiled, or destitute?

Who else could part with enough coin to satisfy the greedy discoverer of such a lucrative find?

Who else but the one man who, in a few decisive strokes, had made himself the sole power broker in the realm and had all the kingdom's coin at his command?

Though Ramza did not voice this dread revelation, Rad easily followed his train of thought.

"You're thinking of Delita, aren't you?" he asked. "You're afraid that if the stone surfaces, he will try to obtain it and, if he does, it may turn him into a zodiac demon too."

"As much as I hate to admit it, yes, it is a possibility," the young Beoulve confirmed sadly, suddenly feeling centuries old under the burden of memory he carried.

The notion pained the young Beoulve as his thoughts wended their way back to his elder brothers. As they had been from Balbanes's first marriage, he had not been particularly close to Dycedarg or Zalbag. When the two had promised to save Teta, and gone back on their word, Ramza could barely think of the pair without the scar over his young heart aching at the betrayal. When he had ventured to Lesalia following Queklain's death, hoping to secure the aid of Zalbag - and, through him, Dycedarg, who could affect policy in such a way as to undermine the Lucavi demons's scheme - the rebuke he'd received had been a stinging one. With the benefit of hindsight, Ramza supposed he shouldn't have been surprised. He'd had no proof, and Zalbag had no cause to trust him more than Dycedarg.

Until the eldest son of House Beoulve revealed his most heinous crime which Ramza, even after forging bonds of friendship with many who'd once sought his death, could not forgive:

The murder of Ramza's father and Dycedarg's: Balbanes Beoulve.

With such sheer ruthlessness and callous disregard for life, it was no wonder that the Capricorn stone had taken over Dycedarg's body so easily, transforming him into the Lucavi, Adramelk. No less evil was how he had manipulated Zalbag until, by chance or fate, he had discovered Dycedarg's crimes and, in an ironic display, joined Ramza in toppling the usurper who had soiled the name of House Beoulve. Zalbag might have joined his once-estranged half-brother, and Ramza would have welcomed him, but Adremelk's profane power had transformed Zalbag into a revenant, an undead creature that lived in perpetual agony while its memories turned to smoke.

Zalbag had died regretting his whole life, spitted upon the unwilling Ramza's blade, and Ramza had long been haunted by his inability to avert this especially bitter tragedy of the War of the Lions.

Although Ramza loathed keeping secrets from Alma, he could not bear to tell his sister the truth about their brothers. He feared this knowledge would devastate Alma, who had surely suffered far too much already, and so he swore Agrias and their other companions to secrecy on the matter.

Having had to fight and kill his older brothers had been more than enough of a weight on his ever-heavy heart. But, the prospect of that tragedy repeating itself with Delita, especially with the stakes all the higher with his former friend now occupying the throne, had caused that burden to feel like the weight of the world...

...which, he reflected, might not be far wrong.

Apparently, Beowulf could also sense the young Beoulve's train of thought. "You fear that if your friend becomes a Lucavi, you may be forced to kill him just as you were forced to kill your brothers. Is that it?"

Ramza nodded, seeking a smile at this latest display of his lack of subterfuge but failing. It had never been a secret to Ramza that he wore his heart on his sleeve, but it seemed that his friends could read his thoughts just as surely as if they'd been penned across his forehead. This was hardly surprising, however, considered everything they had been through together. This was especially true of Rad, who had fought alongside him since they were both mercenaries under Gafgarion's command. His former classmates from the Hokuten academy, who had been at his side from his first battle in Gariland to the final confrontation in the Graveyard of Airships, could also glean his thoughts the way an Arithmetician could glean the answer to a simple equation. And, even though Beowulf had not known him nearly as long, the former Knight Templar, much like his beloved Reis, had an almost eerie talent for reading people, particularly those who had earned his friendship and loyalty.

"Yes," Ramza confessed. "I won't bother pretending I know how or why the stones do what they do. But, I do know that people with troubled souls or impure thoughts, like Weigraf and Dycedarg, are susceptible to the stones' darker powers. And, these stones seem to have a knack for finding their way into the hands of potential hosts as well."

"Do you think Delita would use such a stone the way the other hosts did?" Beowulf asked, his tone carefully neutral.

"Frankly, I'm not sure. I doubt Delita would deliberately use it for evil, but he's managed to do a lot of reprehensible things which, I imagine, he considers to have been for the greater good. A Lucavi demon might very well be able to play on that, offering him even more power to make sure that no commoner will ever meet the same end as Teta. But, then again, Delita is strong-willed and cunning, and I believe he'd rather die than be anyone's puppet again. And, we also know that the stones' ability to corrupt humans is limited. Otherwise, we would've all been turned by now. I'd like to think Delita can be trusted in spite of everything, especially with so much riding on him nowadays. But, even if he's as good as his word, I cannot let him know of the stones' existence, let alone allow him to obtain one. If a Lucavi takes over the King of Ivalice, then everything we've been through would have been for nothing...and there's no telling what disaster may befall this country."

Once more, a heavy silence fell over the small group. Perhaps, Ramza wondered, they too were mulling over the young Beoulve's words. Though Ramza had a fragile hope that Delita would keep his word and that he would not repeat the misrule of Ruvelia, Larg, and Goltana, none of them sincerely believed that the young king's anger had been extinguished. Nor did they assume that his lust for power and vengeance could be so easily cast aside after having simmered for so long during years of meticulous planning and careful execution, all aimed at bringing about the downfall of the previous order of Ivalice.

Even if Delita could be trusted to safeguard the fugitives, he was still a cunning and ruthless man with no compunction against deceit, manipulation, or murder when it served as the means to his sought after ends.

What havoc could a Lucavi demon wreak with so potent a weapon as Delita's mind, made all the deadlier by the authority of his crown?

The young Beoulve shuddered to contemplate the question.

"So what do you propose we do?" Rad asked after a long silence.

"There is only one thing we can do: search for the Pieces stone," Ramza declared. "I will find it alone if I have to; the rest of you have already been through far too much and I do not wish to trouble you further."

Beowulf shook his head. "No, Ramza. Out of the question. First of all, you don't even know where to start looking. Not to mention that it is far too soon for you try to head out into the world again. Were you to set out now, you may very well blow your cover, as well as your sister's. You must bide your time, wait until things settle down a bit more. And, even if we agreed to your plan, we would never let you carry it out alone."

Ramza looked as though he wanted to protest, but Rad interjected before he could speak. "I agree with Beowulf. It's far too dangerous for you to go out looking for the Pieces stone now, especially by yourself. You should wait, at least for now."

"What do you mean 'wait'?!" Ramza growled, remembering only belatedly to lower his voice. "You know what those stones can do! And, like I said, it would be a disaster to this country if Delita was subverted by the Lucavi!"

"I also know that you wished to hear my thoughts because you're worried that your own judgment is unreliable," Beowulf pointed out. "Why else would you have told only me? Why else would you not have already set out by yourself? You can deny it if you wish, but what else would explain those bags under your eyes or your slumped shoulders? I know you, Ramza. You may fear battle and death, but neither ever affected you like this. You want my advice? My advice is to focus on Agrias, Rachel, Alma, and your unborn niece or nephew. They are the people who depend on you and they are the people you can still help, regardless of whether or not the Pisces stone reemerges. They've already suffered much with what has happened. Don't add to it because of what might happen."

"You can't be suggesting I ignore a missing holy stone."

"Not in the least. But, consider. These stones have been missing for over twelve hundred years. For all we know, the Pisces stone has remained unfound by all. Such was the case with Aquarius and Cancer, as you may recall. And, there is far too much at stake for you to risk your cover by venturing forth blindly."

"He's right," Rad spoke up. "You must lay low for now. And besides, how will you keep this a secret from Agrias and Alma? You can't afford to endanger your life so recklessly, especially now that you also have your child to think about. When the time is right, we will help you find the stone, but not before."

The young Beoulve had to admit, the rare moments where Rad shed his ne'er-do-well persona could be quite striking. One moment, his hands could be engrossed in exploring a strange woman's hindquarters while, the next, those same hands could be working with potion and spell to snatch an injured friend back from the brink of death. No less remarkable was how the lecherous expression on his face could rapidly melt away and be replaced with one of earnest concern and unshakable determination.

Rad did not show that side of himself often; but, when he did, not even a Meteor spell could force him to recant.

Ramza, sensing that his chances of persuading Beowulf were even slimmer, sighed in frustration and gave a resigned nod. He knew his friends were just as worried as he about the stone falling into the wrong hands, but he also sensed that they were right in saying that setting out to search now would be foolhardy.

The only solution for the time being was patience...which, the young Beoulve had to admit, was his weakest point.

"You're right," he conceded. "Waiting is not what I do best, but it seems we don't have much of an alternative for now. I just hope that, wherever the stone is, it is not in the possession of someone who can be corrupted."

"Trust me, we're just as worried about it as you are," Beowulf affirmed. "But, I still believe that the wisest course is to wait until things are more settled before we begin our search for the Pieces stone. We found much we did not expect to, including stray holy stones, simply by keeping our eyes and ears open. Perhaps we will do so again."

"I agree," Rad chimed in. "Besides, these stones have been missing for twelve hundred years, and we've found twelve of the thirteen in just two years. I like our chances! And besides, if somebody else finds it first, we can just take it from them! I, for one, still have excellent thieving skills from my days as a pickpocket before Gafgarion recruited me. I'm confident I could even snatch it from the treasury of the king himself if need be."

Upon hearing that, Ramza could not help but smile. Having seen his friend's skills in thievery before, he had no doubt that Rad could deliver on that promise.

"I understand. Very well, I will wait a bit longer. Anyway, now that this discussion is over, I'll need to be putting these stones away, lest they contaminate our food."

Rad and Beowulf laughed, relieved that their former leader had not decided to argue the point. Though Ramza was by no means a dullard, his inane drive to hazard himself in order to safeguard the defenseless had propelled him towards quite a few dangerous decisions.

His unexpected fatherhood might temper that instinct one day, but Beowulf and Rad suspected that they might need to make other such interventions in the meantime.

As the pair moved to help Ramza place the holy stones, the blasted pieces of rock that had been responsible for wreaking such havoc in Ivalice, back in the small jewelry box that the young Beoulve kept them in, the twelve crystals suddenly flared.

And, as they flared, disembodied voices crept into each man's ear.

One voice spoke against allowing Delita to remain on the throne, saying that his legacy of treachery should be unmasked and the true savior of Ivalice crowned in his place.

Another spoke of vengeance against the false religion of Glabados, of corrupt clergyman recanting their many lies from within the grip of the hangman's noose.

More spoke still, of riches beyond compare, of fame that would echo in eternity, of willing life back into those who had been unjustly cut down by the storm of war, and of the need to live as exiles, in disguise or in hiding or in fear, being overturned by the power of the stones...

...power that was, at best, too great for any man to understand or wield and which, at worst, was derived from hatred and which reeked of false hopes and empty promises.

Firming their resolve, the three men snatched up one stone after another and shoved them into the jewelry box, the voices falling into seething silence as the box was snapped shut and locked.

Perhaps the stones, like their guardians, were biding their time.

At that moment, the three men heard footsteps as Alicia approached the table with the first course of the evening's dinner.

"What were you three talking about?" the former monk asked curiously as she set out platters of hot food on the table.

"Nothing you need to concern yourself with, just lambasting Rad for his behavior, as usual," Ramza answered, trying to make the lie sound as smooth as possible so that Alicia would not become suspicious. Like Alma, deception did not come easily to him, and he strongly disliked speaking falsely unless he had no choice or, as was the case with his elder brothers' deaths and Delita's true legacy, when the truth would deal more pain than any lie ever could. He knew also that the Murry twins had a tendency to tell each other, as well as Agrias, everything. His earlier whiff of nostalgia aside, Ramza knew that, if his love learned of what he was considering, she would never let him hear the end of it. The young Beoulve was relieved when he saw that Alicia's answering smile did not hold even a hint of suspicion.

"I see. Anyway, Agrias and the others will be out with the rest of the food soon. Would you three be so good as to lend a hand?"

"Of course!" Ramza answered, perhaps a bit too eagerly, as he turned and nodded towards Beowulf and Rad. The three wasted no time as they began doling out portions of lamb, roast chicken, ribs, and other delicacies upon the modest metal plates, as well as snatching utensils from the nearby cupboard to finish setting the table as the rest of the women emerged from the kitchen.

"You see those?" Rad asked Ramza, gesturing at the leg of lamb, chicken breast, and rack of ribs, all of which were making their mouths water. "Like I said, works of art!"

Lavian and Alicia giggled at his compliment, even after Rad had chosen to express his admiration with a playful slap to each twins' buttocks.

Agrias watched the display with, Ramza suspected, a growing urge to introduce the pommel of her sword to Rad's front teeth. At the last, however, she shook her head grimly and took her seat.

Though the dining hall was no less dark, nor any less chilly, it seemed far less foreboding once the small band had seated themselves and dug into the modest but lovingly prepared meal. Dinner passed by quickly, the seven companions engaging in their customary banter about their plans as well as hopes for the future. A cheer rose around the table as Beowulf and Reis announced their plans to, at long last, marry, possibly before they departed for Lesalia with Ramza, Agrias, Alma, Rad, and the twins. The young Beoulve, grateful for something to focus on besides the errant holy stone, promptly raised a toast to the happy couple. Rad, never one to miss an opportunity for mischief, promptly asked Ramza and Agrias when they planned to marry. The young Beoulve, who'd been holding his mug of chilled milk aloft, nearly dropped it at the sudden question. Agrias, who'd been about to take issue with Lavian and Alicia migrating from their chairs to Rad's lap, was left gaping when the dark knight's words registered. Both of the new parents were already blushing by this time, but they blushed all the deeper when they noticed that the rest of the table was eyeing them with keen interest.

All too conscious of the redness gathering about his cheeks, Ramza was forced to admit that he had not given much thought to the idea of marrying Agrias before their friends mentioned it. And, judging by the holy knight's sudden fascination with the floor, she hadn't either. After all, being hunted by church and state alike hadn't exactly permitted much thought of the future beyond how best to evade the many snares and foes that littered their path.

Now, however, the notion was taking root in Ramza's mind.

The young Beoulve had long been fascinated by the beautiful holy knight, enchanted by her grace, her poise, and the unwavering strength of her convictions. Yet he also knew that, despite her frosty exterior, she was far from the animated marble statue she'd been likened to in the past.

He had seen her after Ovelia had thrown in her lot with Delita, and when the faith she'd followed all her life had been revealed as a lie spun to beguile the masses into unknowingly worshiping a demon.

He had seen her rage, he had seen her weep, he had seen her despair, he had seen her hide all that agony behind a stony mask and make the patently false claim that all was well.

And, he remembered how the sight of her agony had wounded him more than any of the numerous sword wounds he'd taken during his long and infamous career.

When she had stumbled to his tent, imploring him to help her forget, he knew that to oblige would be a stain upon his honor nearly as dark as any of his alleged crimes...

...yet, he also knew that he would rather burn at the stake than watch her suffer so any longer.

That decision, Ramza had to admit, wasn't one of his best. And yet, whenever he looked into Rachel's eyes or watched the normally stoic holy knight smile when she rocked their daughter to sleep, he knew he would never wish to take back that choice.

Yes, he did wish to marry Agrias, but did Agrias wish to marry him? Since they already have a child together, he knew he'd already waited much too long to do right by her. And, though he was still uncertain of Delita's trustworthiness, he nonetheless could not suppress the hope that the new king of Ivalice might be able to make good on his promise and that the most innocent of the Beoulve line might be able to have the life he and the others had given up to safeguard Ivalice.

He wanted Rachel to have a place to call home, a family that loved her, and the peace of mind knowing that she could fall asleep at night knowing that both parents would still be there come dawn.

He wanted that life for Rachel, and he hoped Agrias would be a part of it.

At the very least, Ramza and Agrias would have to become engaged so that when 'Drake Seymore' arrived in Lesalia, the ladies would know that he was already taken and not risk the holy knight's wrath by vying for his affections.

Ramza glanced in Agrias's direction, noting the holy knight's blush deepen to crimson when Alicia and Lavian promptly took it upon themselves to plan the supposed wedding.

"We really don't want to fight over who's going to be Maid of Honor, so we'll settle for being Bridesmaids. Alma can be the Maid of Honor, but we are so planning the bachelorette party. That's alright with you, isn't it, Alma?"

When the Beoulve girl let this pass without comment, Ramza turned toward his sister's seat and saw that it stood empty.

"Where did she go?" Ramza asked, his earlier wistful thoughts giving way to concern.

"She said she was feeling tired and wanted to go to bed early," Reis spoke up, though her drawn brows suggested that there was more to the Beoulve girl's departure than that.

Ramza had been about to press the dragonkin for details, but she raised one hand to forestall his words.

"Don't worry," she assured. "I need to examine her anyway, so I'll make sure she is well before Beowulf and I depart."

So saying, she rose from her chair and left the table, but not before turning back to Ramza and Agrias and offering a congratulatory smile.

"I believe I speak for her, however, when I say that you and Agrias have always made a lovely couple. And, that you'd make an even better family."

As the dragonkin left the room, Beowulf, Rad, and the twins lost no time echoing the sentiment, though Rad's customary lewdness promptly caused the talk to degenerate into good-natured bickering. Soon enough, Agrias was positively flustered while Ramza, barely hearing the chatter, felt longing tug the corners of his mouth into a rare smile.

* * *

 _Oh, what was I thinking?!_ Alma silently recriminated herself as she neared her room.

The meal had gone well enough and, despite the persistent arguments against Alma exerting herself during her pregnancy, the Beoulve girl was pleased for the simple diversion of cooking a meal for her brother and her new-found friends.

But, that's all it had been; a diversion.

As she had said to Agrias, being idle for too long could only allow the enormity of what had happened to her, and what might yet happen, to wash over her in a tide of grief and dread.

While she was roasting the chicken, or seasoning the ribs, or making idle conversation with her brother's remaining companions, she was almost able to keep her underlying thoughts in abeyance. Almost.

Though she'd held the pendulum of her thoughts in place for a time, her grip was shaky. And, it grew all the more tenuous as she saw Ramza eyeing Agrias with adoration, Beowulf and Reis sharing loving glances, and even Rad's crude flirtations with the Murry twins.

She'd wondered more than once just how those rude games might come to an end. Though the three of them sharing a tent had not been nearly as flabbergasted as Ramza blushingly telling Alma she'd soon be an aunt, the sight of the dark knight, monk, and summoner sneaking about in the wee hours had been quite startling. Though Ramza was of the opinion that Rad was just the twins' playmate, and that he would be just as attentive to anyone whom had spoils which his wits might allow him to pilfer, Alma was not so sure.

The Beoulve girl had, at times, noticed Rad's gaze drifting back and forth between the twins, his usually lewd expression replaced by one of uncharacteristic nervousness and indecision.

Perhaps Ramza wasn't the only one wondering at his future, and who he might share it with.

This latest diversion, however, had proven to be her undoing, as it caused her thoughts to wend their way toward Izlude. The knight blade had been as different from the lavacious dark knight as night was from day. Izlude had been tender and respectful, and though he'd readily admitted he'd found her attractive, he'd also admitted that she had been the first and only woman he had ever coveted...

...she had also been his last.

Recalling Izlude had caused the wound in her heavy heart to throb with renewed pain and, when the conversation had shifted towards engagements and weddings, the pendulum of her thoughts promptly tore free of her grasp and swung in the opposite direction.

Reminded once more of her own loss, Alma found herself feeling uncomfortable as well as a bit depressed and she'd excused herself from the table.

By the time she had realized her mistake, however, it was too late.

Surely her abrupt departure had attracted some notice. And, since there was little need to guess the cause, her flight might very well have marred what should've been a happy occasion.

Though they'd only known each other for a short time, she'd come to think of Reis as an older sister like Agrias and Meliadoul, and knew that the dragonkin had earned a happy life with Beowulf a hundred times over. Yet, the Beoulve girl's flimsy grasp on her own emotions had allowed her to detract from Reis's well deserved moment of happiness.

The notion set her gut to roiling, and she could swear that she felt her child give her an admonishing kick as she arrived at her room. Ironically, her new room was the very same one Reis was confined to during her captivity at the hands of Celebrant Bremondt. As soon as the door shut behind her, she found herself once more gripped by the indecision that had so often plagued her amidst the trials and tribulations she'd endured since her abduction from Orbonne. She found herself wondering if it would help if she'd gone back to the dining hall and apologized for being so inconsiderate. She quickly discarded that idea, however, deciding that the happy occasion would most likely return to its proper course without her around as a distraction.

That thought struck her as surely as a slap on the mouth. Though Agrias and Reis had assured her that she could always talk to them when her spirits were low, she could not help but feel like a burden to them when they had been through so much during the war and since both women had their own lives to live. Ramza too had earned that and, mutton-headed though he might be, she suspected that it would not take him long to take Rad's advice and marry Agrias.

As for Alma, she remained in grief for the man she'd loved and lost, and alone in spite of the friends who remained at her side.

As if roused by that thought, she felt a stirring beneath her ribs, punching a gasp from her lungs as her hand reflexively darted to her womb.

"I'm sorry about that," she whispered, surprised that she didn't feel the least bit foolish talking to her stomach. "Mother's just been having a hard day."

Her words, though more instinctive than anything else, jolted her back to awareness. In six months, if not sooner, she would be a mother. Maybe she would have help raising her child, or maybe she would be on her own. But, it hardly mattered.

This child was all she had left of Izlude, and this child needed her.

That reminder of just how much rode on her slender shoulders left her shaken for a moment; after all, she knew even less about rearing a child than Ramza and Agrias. But, a stretching second later, something kindled to life in her breast. Whether it was a desperate determination not to lose the chance to be the mother of Izlude's child as she'd lost the chance to be his wife, whether it was recalling the vow she'd made never to forget Izlude and the love they'd shared, or some burgeoning maternal instinct, or some mingling of all three, she could not say.

Whatever the reason, she knew she could not afford to wallow in her grief.

"Maybe turning in early would be a good idea," she mused, partly to her unborn child. "I need to clear my head and, from what I've seen of your little cousin, I should get what rest I can before you start keeping me up half the night."

So saying, and hoping a night's rest would help her regain her composure, she changed into her nightgown and had been about to snuff out the candle when she heard a knock at the door.

"Alma? Are you there? It's me, Reis. May I come in?"

The Beoulve girl suddenly felt her fragile resolve tremble. As had happened often of late, the dragonkin had been the first to notice the sudden peculiarities in Alma's mood. Although the Beoulve girl tried to conceal her resurgent melancholy and sound as though all was well, she supposed she should've known that she could not fool Reis. Like her love, the dragonkin was also very perceptive and had an almost eerie knack for reading people, even those she had not known for long. Much to Alma's relief, however, she'd refrained from calling Alma out on her lie in front of the others. Instead, she said she'd come to Alma's room once the meal was over.

Alma had hoped that Reis's claim had been an idle one and, in truth, Alma wouldn't have blamed her.

Still feeling guilty, the Beoulve girl considered making some excuse to get Reis to leave but, having seen Agrias, who was visibly more pregnant and far more ferocious, repeatedly fail to ward Reis off, Alma discarded the notion.

"Alright," the Beoulve girl answered as she quickly opened the door for the dragonkin.

As the dragonkin entered the room, Alma could not help but be impressed that she could enter what had once been her gilded cage with nary a hint of discomfiture. This room, which Bremondt had gaudily decorated for the woman his delusional mind believed was his love, had changed very little since she was imprisoned behind its locked door and warded walls with only the prospect of Beowulf's death to keep her company. But, then again, Bremondt was dead and Reis was reportedly able to tame dragons with the power of her will and breathe fire. So, it stood to reason that a woman of her talents did not scare easily.

Alma did, however, find herself wondering if such a woman forgave easily.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, struggling to keep her voice even. "All that talk about engagements and marriage got me thinking of..."

She couldn't finish the sentence, but she hardly needed to. Reis gave an understanding nod and clapped a hand on the Beoulve girl's shoulder.

"Don't worry, we understood," the dragonkin assured, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

"Still, it doesn't excuse what I did. I mean, after everything you and Beowulf have been through, it was inconsiderate of me to ruin the occasion. I should've stayed and just held it together."

"Alma, there are three things wrong with that statement. First, you didn't ruin it. If you know what we've been through, you'd know it would take more than a hasty exit to rob us of our happiness. Second, the idea of "holding it together" during pregnancy is a joke. These mood swings will come when they come, and there's no stopping them. And, third, I've seen other women do much worse when their hearts were all awhirl while carrying a child. I could tell you stories about Agrias's pregnancy that would make your hair curl."

Having seen one or two such stories for herself, Alma could not help but snicker, the small laughter seeming to her as much a treasure as water in the desert.

"That's better," Reis affirmed. "Now, why don't you get on the bed at we'll get started."

The Beoulve girl nodded and took her place on the edge of the ostentatious four poster. Ever since she and the others had moved into Lionel Castle, it had become routine for Reis as well as Beowulf to visit at least twice a week, in large part so that the dragonkin could check up on Agrias and Rachel, as well as Alma to ensure that her pregnancy was progressing without any complications. Ten years of experience as a midwife had taught Reis that routine check-ups for expectant mothers were invaluable in detecting potential problems which, if left unchecked, might lead to miscarriages and death in childbirth. Since Alma had spent nearly three months of her pregnancy in the captivity of a disguised demon, and then briefly possessed by one herself, Reis would take no chances with her latest patient.

Before Reis followed Alma into the room, the Beoulve girl noticed that she had stooped to retrieve a plate which she'd set on the floor next to the door. On the plate was some kind of pastry she had never seen before, coated with a sheen of sweet syrup.

Perhaps it was one of those strange pregnancy cravings, or the fondness for novelty that so characterized young people, or maybe it was the simple fact that she was eating for two.

Whatever the reason, the pastry's aroma made her mouth water.

"That looks delicious, Reis. What is it?"

The dragonkin smiled. "It's a popular dessert where I came from called 'flan'". I made some for your brother and friends. But, since you could not stay for dessert, I made sure to save you a little. I suspected you'd need a little something to cheer you up, and I'm sure your child would appreciate it as well," she answered with a wink.

Alma laughed softly. "I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Reis, but you didn't have to."

"Of course I did. Eating well is essential to having a healthy baby. I trust you have been following my instructions? Remember, six small meals a day as well as plenty of water and milk, but no wine, ale, or spirits."

"Yes, I remember. I normally don't eat this much, but I suppose this is natural since I'm eating for two now."

"Right," Reis said as she handed the dessert to Alma and watched with a snicker as the Beoulve girl eagerly took a bite. Though her prior grooming would never have permitted such a display, Alma found herself sagging with delight at the sweet and savory flavor that assailed her taste buds. Her first bite was just barely within the confines of a noblewoman's standards, and her adherence to dining etiquette promptly took a nosedive from there.

"It's delicious, Reis. What's in it?" she asked, her words muffled by rapid forkfuls.

"Eggs, sugar, flour, caramel, and syrup. It's very easy to make; I can show you sometime if you'd like."

"I would," Alma said as she finished the last bite and set the empty plate on her night table. "But, Ramza doesn't want me spending too much time with cooking and housework. I practically had to beg him to let me help with dinner tonight. He's worried that I might put too much strain on my body and lose the baby, but I think it's preposterous. I mean, Agrias had followed him all over Ivalice, fought Lucavi demons, and _still_ managed to have a healthy baby."

"Well, Agrias is a strong woman. Not that I'm saying you aren't, but she is a warrior. And besides, she had little choice. With the church and both the White and Black Lions chasing them, there was no safe haven for her to wait until she'd given birth, though Ramza certainly tried to find one. And, considering all the strain she placed on her body and the fact that she didn't always eat well, it's a miracle Agrias didn't miscarry. But, like I said, she didn't have much choice. However, you do, so I suggest you do as your brother says. He and the others can run the castle just fine without your help for the time being."

That was hardly what Alma wanted to hear, since time spent in idleness might very well allow her grief to simmer and bubble over. But, the dragonkin's mention that the circumstances of Agrias's surprise pregnancy could have easily cost her baby's life had struck a chord. Though she knew Agrias would deny any such insinuation, and probably quite vocally, the holy knight seemed to have had her carrying Ramza's child well in hand. Granted, she'd looked quite ridiculous wearing her armor in such a state and her ponderous waddle had only made her look all the more absurd. But, for all that, she had nonetheless seemed as solid and indestructible as the stout trees from which she drew her surname.

That Agrias's baby had been at risk all the while had never occurred to Alma, and she suddenly found herself second guessing her reluctance to take Ramza's advice.

As tragic as it would've been to lose Rachel, Ramza and Agrias could have another child.

Alma, however, would get no such second chance.

"Anyway, since we're talking about good advice," Reis went on, shaking Alma from her reverie, "I'd suggest you start lighting a fire in here before bed. This room is freezing!"

So saying, the dragonkin moved towards the room's fireplace, inhaled deeply, and blew out a gout of flame. The moldering logs in the fireplace, which looked as if they hadn't been touched since Reis's captivity, promptly caught fire and a warm conflagration crackled to life, lending badly needed warmth to the once cold and forbidding chamber.

"Will your children be able to do that too?" Alma asked once her awe had subsided enough to permit speech.

At the notion of having children and the thinly veiled implication that Alma believed she'd be a good mother, a delighted blush crossed Reis's features.

"Not until they are around your age," the dragonkin answered, her expression giving way to one of ironic humor and restrained horror. "A fire-breathing teenager, now there's a charming thought. But, enough of that. Now that you're done eating, please lay down so I can examine you."

"Yes, Reis." Alma obeyed as she laid down. Taking a chair from the nearby writing table, the dragonkin set it right next to Alma's bedside before seating herself. After a quick reminder that a dragonkin's skin was quite a bit cooler than those of a normal human, she placed her hands over Alma's belly. The Beoulve girl flinched at the chill, but quickly settled, allowing Reis to feel the slight movements coming from inside her friend's womb, a sign that the baby was doing well and that Alma had indeed followed her instructions faithfully.

"It looks like your child is doing well. If you keep this up, he or she will be just as robust and lively as Rachel."

Alma smiled. "I'm glad to hear that. And amazed, really. When you told me I was with child, I was worried that Altima might've done something to the baby when...," she let her words trail away, shuddering at the memory before continuing. "What I don't understand is how you were able to tell I was with child when everyone else, including myself, had no idea."

"I'm not so sure that's entirely true. I think you did notice the changes to your body, but you were so preoccupied with everything else that happened, not the smallest of which being helping bring your little one's cousin into the world, that you did not think much of them until you passed out."

That point served to drive home just how little Alma knew about these capricious waters she'd soon be wading into. If Agrias's knowledge of motherhood was slim, Alma's was truly minute. And, six months was very little time to learn before the baby arrived. Realizing this, Alma listened raptly as Reis pointed out once again that the Beoulve girl had missed her monthly cycle, a key sign of being with child. And Alma listened with great interest as the older woman went on to explain how the two were connected, something that she, ironically, did not learn during her training as a cleric at Orbonne.

If her instructors had thought her too young to learn that particular aspect of the healing arts, she could safely say they'd done her no favors in being so concerned with her delicacy.

"Do you think my child will be a boy or a girl?" Alma asked as she meditatively rubbed her belly.

"Unfortunately, there's no way to tell until the child is born," Reis admitted, though curiosity seeped into her features. "If you could choose, would you like a boy or a girl?"

The Beoulve girl was silent for a moment before answering. "I'm not sure…," Besides the gender of the child, Alma also found herself wondering what he or she would look like. Would the child have her golden hair? Or perhaps Izlude's dark locks? Would his or her eyes be the color of the sky or that of the Burgosa Sea, which was famous for its dazzling green waters? Perhaps those two colors would mingle, lending the child irises that drew on both of his or her parents? It was a possibility that her child might, indeed, have both Alma and Izlude's features mingled together, considering that Agrias had bluish-green eyes and reddish-blonde hair which, Alma supposed, owed to two parents whose disparate features came together quite beautifully in their child.

As her thoughts turned once more towards the baby's father, Alma found a sigh of melancholy parting her lips. As brief as her time with the knight blade had been, and as tragically as it had ended, she was happy that a part of Izlude would live on yet. Part of her knew that her child was proof that Izlude had loved her and that she could do no greater honor to his memory than to raise him or her well. But, another part of her also knew that having his child would serve as a painful reminder of the man she had loved, lost, and would mourn for the rest of her life, especially if the baby was a boy. She would never be able to look at their child's face without seeing the face of the man she had loved for a short time and would mourn for a lifetime staring back at her. But, once more firming her resolve, Alma decided she would find a way to keep the promise she'd made to herself and this child. Maybe it would be best to take Agrias up on her offer when her grief weighed too heavily upon her. Or, perhaps the wiser course was to keep such thoughts to herself. She did not want to trouble her brother and his friends further, not unless keeping silent might harm her precious burden, for the Beoulve girl doubted there was even one single person in all of Ivalice who had not lost something or someone precious to them in the terrible conflict that was the War of the Lions. Innumerable mothers and fathers had seen their sons and daughters depart for the front never to return, as well as the reverse, and just as many brothers and sisters had buried their siblings in shallow graves amidst Ivalice's many battlefields. No, with or without the proffered shoulder to cry on, Alma had to be strong. Izlude himself would have wanted it, just as surely as he would have wanted their child to grow up happy and well loved.

"Well, whether it's a boy or a girl, I'm sure your child will be as beautiful as her mother," Reis affirmed, gently stroking Alma's hair. "Or as handsome as his father, if what you told me about him is true."

Alma blushed, her memories for once bringing a smile to her face at long last. "Trust me, Reis. Izlude was the most handsome man I had ever seen. But, please don't tell Ramza I said that; he might get jealous."

Reis laughed. "Of course not. It'll be our little secret."

* * *

After the small band of fugitives had finished a serving of Reis's delectable flan, followed promptly by a second, the good-natured mischief in the largely deserted castle quickly drew to a close. After Beowulf and Reis had taken their leave and the others have retired to their rooms for the evening, the lights in the windows of Lionel Castle winked out and whispered chatter gave way to soft snoring. In the master bedroom, however, Ramza yet remained awake. Though he'd elected to take Beowulf and Rad's advice, the errant holy stone still teased at the back of his mind. Sensing that sleep would prove elusive this night, he decided to while away the time by reading the letters from their other companions who had accompanied them on their journey during the war. These had wended their way to the young Beoulve's new home through various channels, all of which likely kept secret and safe by Delita's invisible hand.

While Ramza was glad to have some means of keeping in touch with his friends, it added yet another complication to the question of their continued safety.

After all, since these letters passed through Delita's hands, it meant that, if the new King of Ivalice went back on his word, he'd know where to find Ramza's other companions as well.

Shaking off the notion, and reminding himself that he was jumping at more than enough shadows already, Ramza chose the first letter. Judging by the way it had been written by several different people, and that the rough way the parchment had been handled suggested those same people had been somewhat argumentative regarding whose turn is was to write, it must've come from his old classmates from the Hokuten academy. The first portion of the letter looked as though it was written in the flowing script characteristic of Francis the thief and Mydrede the ninja...and that there'd been some pushing and shoving over whom controlled the quill.

 _Hey, Ramza. You didn't think you'd get rid of us that easily, did you? Well, we've arrived back in_ Gariland _. Since it was well behind the White Lion's lines, it didn't get hit as hard as some of the other towns we've seen. Still, it's kinda eerie being back here after everything that's happened since we graduated. Not many of the others from our old class made it through the war, and we can't exactly start chatting up those who're still around. Still, after_ all _the practice we got in keeping a low profile, we'll manage until_ Delita _makes good on his promise._

Here, the handwriting changed into the blocky text of Abel the black mage and Emery the white mage, the section they'd written being especially smudged with grasping ink stained fingers.

 _We likely won't stay in_ Gariland _for long. Too many memories. As for where we'll go instead, we're undecided. We've been hearing talk about_ Delita _founding a new order of knights. With so little left of the Hokuten, Wyverns, Griffons,_ Nanten _, and Aegis Knights, I guess he thinks it's easier to start from scratch. They say this new order will be called the Order of the_ Chimera, _since many of the surviving knights will be joining to serve as officers and new recruits will come from every which where. We have been thinking about joining once our pardons come through since it would give us a window into Lesalia. It's no secret that Agrias doesn't trust_ Delita _\- frankly, we're not sold on him either - and it might be best if someone she does trust is watching out for Ovelia._

Ramza gave a nod of approval to his absent companions, though he hoped their vigilance would prove unneeded. As he moved on, he saw that the next portion of the letter was written in the calligraphic script he'd long associated with Wynefreede the samurai.

 _It's still hard to believe everything that's happened._ Delita _being a king and all of us being fugitives. I've known a long time that life isn't fair, but this is just unreal. All we've been through, and we're likely to be the only people who know about it? I know, I know, you asked us to keep our mouths shut about just how_ Delita _got onto the throne, but that doesn't mean we have to like it. Frankly, it blew us_ away _that you didn't try to use the skeletons in his closet against him. Still, whatever else_ Delita _might be, it seems like he's managed to do right by his new subjects. Schools for the poor are popping up like toadstools and, with all the reconstruction projects_ Delita's _been sponsoring, there are jobs aplenty. We still find ourselves wondering how much of this might be just an act to win the peoples' favor, but who knows? Maybe_ Delita _will surprise us in a good way, for once._

Despite the note of frustrated skepticism the letter had taken, Ramza found a smile tugging at the corners of his lips at such hopeful signs. In particular, the hitherto unheard-of notion of educating the masses might very well bring about changes to Ivalice that would still be felt after Delita's rule came to an end. And, perhaps, some truly tangible good, the sort that nobody would need to rationalize or use convoluted reasoning to justify, would result from those on the lower rungs of society being better equipped to improve their lot in life. The last part of the letter was written in Raffe the dragoon's chicken scratch and, as was often the case in the past, Raffe's first sentence caused a laugh to part Ramza's lips.

 _After due consideration, the requisite deliberation, and the customary number of broken noses, it has been decided that I will finish this letter. Frankly, the others have covered a lot of what needs to be said. But, we all wanted to say congratulations on your daughter's birth. If we can find a way to get to you without attracting notice, we'd love to meet her. In fact, with_ luck _you might see us in Lesalia when you head up_ there _next month. For now, we'll be keeping our ears open for jobs in the taverns. Yeah, yeah, we know, you offered us a very generous severance package, but we think you'll be needing that money for your kid. Besides, since none of us is quite safe yet, the job we took on way back when is not quite finished. Here's hoping that changes soon, and may we meet again in happier times._

Raffe _, Francis, Abel, Wynefreede,_ Mydrede _, and Emery_

Still laughing, and finding himself thinking Rachel would enjoy having a few more eccentric aunts and uncles, Ramza turned his attention to the remaining letters. He decided to read Mustadio's letter next.

 _Greetings, Ramza! I wanted to tell you that I have safety returned to_ Goug _to continue my research of ancient machinery alongside my father. I've got so many things I want to tell you about, not the least of which being that Construct 8 is working like a dream. I'm really glad the Aquarius Stone was his activation key rather than his power source. A machinist could spend a lifetime trying to figure out what makes him_ tick, _and enjoy every minute of it. He's also been helpful with excavating the ruins and identifying areas which we didn't even know were there. I tried to ask him how he's able to do that, but it might be a while before I can understand everything he said in reply. Don't worry, though, I'm already on it! I was also able to figure out how to use that orrery to send Cloud home. He still doesn't seem stable to me, and his strength is beyond human. But, I could swear I saw him tear up when he laid eyes on that flower girl in Sal Ghidos. I still don't know what to make of that, and he didn't bother telling me before he walked through the rift to his own world without so much as a 'thank you'. I'm not sure where Balthier has gotten to, and I still have no idea what to make of him. I've always thought of myself as being pretty good with guns, but I swear, you'd think that guy was born with one strapped to his hip! Another thing I can't make sense of is what he meant when his gaze lingered on that wrecked airship in the graveyard. The way his expression became so forlorn and he murmured that strange_ word _Strahl. That still has me baffled. But, you know what's even more bizarre? When he headed off, he left behind plans for an airship. And, they're the real deal! I've done some calculations, and the mechanics all_ check out _. As if his calling you "Vaan", calling Agrias "Ashe", and_ Orlandu _"Basch" wasn't strange enough!_

Ramza could practically feel the machinist's exuberance wafting off the parchment, and couldn't help but smile. Mustadio might've been older than Ramza, but the young Beoulve could not help but think of the machinist as a bright and eager boy, always excited at the prospect of building some new gadget.

As for Ramza, his fascination with airships ended when one of them was literally blown out from under him.

Still, if any man could bring about another era in which airships crowded out the heavens, Ramza was willing to bet that Mustadio would be that man. And, with that, he turned his attention back to the letter.

_There is one other thing I'd like to ask you about, though. Have you heard from Melia? She was in a bad way when we escaped from Murond, and I'm kinda worried._

Ramza's eyebrow arched at the nickname the machinist had given the divine knight. As Ramza recalled, Meliadoul hadn't appreciated it...but, then again, they hadn't exactly met Meliadoul under the best of circumstances. If the life Ramza had known had come toppling down on that fateful day at Fort Zeakden, then the twin blows of Riovanes and Limberry had caused Meliadoul's life to turn to dust and scatter on the wind. In the span of a few weeks, the divine knight had lost her brother to the leonine claws of Hashmalum, learned that her father, lost for years to demonic corruption without her even realizing it, had been the culprit, and discovered that the faith to which she'd devoted her life had been a sham concocted by the very evil behind the loss of her family. That barrage of horrific revelations seemed to have caused her heart to crumble in her chest, leaving behind only a well-honed machine of battle that Construct 8's long dead creators would have envied.

She rarely spoke, she took her meals and her rest well away from the others, and her otherwise lovely face was always marred by exhaustion and the jaded air of one for whom life had become merely a succession of days leading to the end...and that everything prior to that end had been gutted of joy or meaning.

Mustadio, who could be surprisingly empathetic despite how much time he spent in the cold silent company of machines, had taken it upon himself to help her...

...but, as often happened in those pursuits of his which did not involve machines, the results left much to be desired.

Less-than-suitable for the frontlines, Mustadio would often support the divine knight by firing over Meliadoul's head, shielding her from ranged attack and providing the distraction needed for her to bring her unique sword skills to bear. Having lost his own shield to such techniques during their battle in Bervenia, Ramza had been eager to see these talents put to use against their myriad foes. Mustadio had always been the first to complement Meliadoul's skill and bravery, though the divine knight's response usually looked more akin to a grimace than a smile. These recollections suddenly nudging aside his preoccupation with the errant holy stone, Ramza read on.

 _I tried to convince her to come to_ Goug _with me. I thought maybe it would help if she got a fresh start, but she turned me down. When she left us, just before Rachel was born, she said something about seeking out her fate. But, with what happened down in Murond the last time "fate" came up, I have my doubts._

Ramza couldn't blame the machinist. Not long after it was discovered that Altima's explosive demise hadn't killed them, Meliadoul had slipped away from the group, Mustadio following not long after. The others had been discussing how best to clear the rubble blocking their path back to Orbonne when a gunshot rang out. Ramza had raced in the direction of the sound and found Meliadoul huddled on the floor massaging her forearm. Her unsheathed sword lay not far off and, between the blade and its owner, was Mustadio, frantically trying to hide the smoke issuing from his gun's muzzle.

Though neither had said so explicitly, it was obvious what had happened. Having been denied death in battle against the Lucavi, Meliadoul sought to end her own life, only for Mustadio to intervene.

But, judging by the distant, wistful expression on Meliadoul's face and her whispered rambling about fate having been cheated, it was doubtful that she'd show much gratitude for the machinist's intervention.

Ramza did, however, find himself wondering if there might be more to the machinist's actions than that. Mustadio's surprising empathy aside, it was no secret that Meliadoul was very attractive. More than that, however, after having seen his father dangling over the jaws of death and having narrowly slipped away from the reaper's grasp many a time, perhaps Mustadio had found himself thinking that life was, indeed, brief and fragile.

After all, the civilizations whose lost technologies so fascinated him likely served as a daily reminder that time was never on anyone's side and that, with only so many years to seek what joys and experiences one might find, there are few if any second chances.

Perhaps now, with a future free of the games of war played by the worst of mankind and demonkind, Mustadio's agile mind had turned towards the future and he'd found himself wondering if a certain former divine knight might have a place in it? Curious, he continued reading.

 _I'm hoping that, if you have the chance to talk to her, you might have better luck. You always did have a talent for persuading people. After all, look what you talked Agrias into. Ha, ha, ha! Speaking of which, I'm going to see if I can see you in person when we meet in Lesalia again next month. My father also extends his gratitude for saving him, as well as keeping me safe, heh heh. But, there is one thing I must ask you about. Now that Altima is gone and the war's over, what do you plan to do with the holy stones? We both know how dangerous they are, and I think it's best if we find some way to destroy them. I've talked it over with my father and he_ agrees, _but says that it may not be possible. Perhaps the best thing you can do is seal them away and let the secret of their locations die with us. But, we can discuss that when we see each other again. Until then, take care, my friend._

_Mustadio Bunazsa_

Ramza's earlier amusement over the machinist's veiled interest in his former companion promptly gave way to a frown at Mustadio's mention of the holy stones. Once more, the missing Pieces stone teased at the back of his mind and he suddenly found himself wondering what might happen if Beowulf and Rad were mistaken in their earlier counsel. Ramza supposed it hardly mattered whether the stone was already found or down some hole waited to be discovered. As the true savior of Ivalice, the young Beoulve had also found himself the rather unwilling guardian of the Zodiac Stones, and this weighty obligation was now his responsibility whether he wanted it or not. He knew the potential the stones had for evil as well as good; but all too often, they have been used for evil. Having seen firsthand what they could do once they'd ensnared the corrupt, Ramza knew the stones must never be allowed to fall into the wrong hands again. If it was possible to destroy them, he would spend the rest of his life trying to find a way to do so if that's what it took to keep a monstrosity such as Altima from ever returning to the human world.

But for now, he knew that agonizing over the unknown would serve only to sap his strength and cloud his wits when he'd need both, not just in case news of the stone did surface but to safeguard his family as well. Thus resolved, he placed Mustadio's letter aside and picked up another letter, this one from his father's old friend, Count Cidofolas Orlandu. Or, as he was better known, "Thunder God Cid".

_Hello, Ramza, I trust you have been well since we last saw each other? I could not help but notice that you broke your sword arm during our last battle and I pray, even now, for your swift recovery. As for myself, I have decided that this shall be my last adventure. I have lost count of how many battlefields I have walked, how may foes I have laid low, and how many friends I have had to bury along the way. I wish for our battle against Altima to be the last time I shall have to shed another's blood. It's not as if I've much choice in the matter either. My age is catching up to me at last; my bones ache, my hands tremble, and my heart lurches in my breast. It's quite clear that I'm not as young and spry as I used to be. Sadly, that might not deter those who have cause to wish me harm, so I'm going to lay low and live out my remaining days somewhere peaceful and quiet. Due to the circumstances of Duke Goltana's death, and my alleged role in it, I cannot disclose where I will be going nor when or if I will return._

_On a less somber note, I wish to extend my gratitude for your having Luso accompany me on this final journey. Luso reminds me much of your father's stories of you. The lad is energetic, adventurous, and never hesitates to help a friend in need. Still, it's no secret that, with the war over, he's eager to resume searching for his missing friends. He tells me that he's heard nothing from them, neither word nor rumor, and it's obvious that he's deeply concerned. Once I'm settled and my affairs are in order, I'll send him on his way. He's done well by us, and I can only hope that he will find what he seeks._

_Even in these quiet corners, however, there is news which has caught my attention. I heard from Olan that King Delita has appointed you and Alma as the new duke and duchess of_ Lionel, _and that_ Agrias as well as Rad and the twins _are living with you. He also told me of your new daughter and I want to congratulate you and Agrias both. I'm sorry I could not be there to see her, but I'm sure she must be beautiful. Your father would have been proud of you and would have dearly loved to see his grandchild if he had lived. I can make no promises about whether I will be able to see you again but, if I cannot, know that I wish for nothing more than your happiness. Once again, congratulations on your little girl and I know that she is in the best of hands._

_T.G Cid_

As he finished the letter, Ramza sighed sadly. Like himself, the former count's good name had been a casualty of the war. Orlandu, who had commanded the Nanten during the Fifty Years War and had fought bravely at the side of Balbanes and his Hokuten, was also believed to be dead. Yet, the manner of his supposed death was every bit as ignominious as it was false. During the aborted Battle of Fort Besselat, where both of the warring dukes were slain, Orlandu had been relieved of command and imprisoned after "evidence" had emerged of a conspiracy between him and pro-Orinias members of the church.

Unsurprisingly, Delita had been appointed as the new commander of the Nanten and, consequently, became Goltana's new right-hand man.

Shortly after Ramza and company had freed Orlandu from the Fort, news reached their ears that, during the chaos resulting from the sluice being opened and the battle grinding to a halt, Orlandu had broken out of his cell and he and Duke Goltana had killed each other. Orlandu being present and very much alive amongst Ramza's companions made the truth clear enough, but it was another truth which would never let see the light of day so long as Delita lived.

After all, that Delita likely killed his own liege lord and painted an innocent man as the culprit might tarnish his image as a benevolent king.

Orlandu himself hardly seemed to mind, since Goltana's lust for power had undone his wits, but that didn't change the fact that the man who was an even greater hero than Ramza and Delita combined would have to live out his life in obscurity. However, unlike Ramza and Alma, the former count had little reason to fear pursuit. The body of Delita's decoy, which resembled Orlandu as surely as a twin, had been discovered at the scene of the gruesome deed. Ramza doubted many would genuinely revile Orlandu for his alleged crime, but that the former count's name was so besmirched rankled him. However, the young Beoulve forced himself to remember that his father's old friend only wanted to live quietly in peace for whatever time he had left. Perhaps he would have a chance to see his friend at least once more before his time in this world came to an end.

After setting Orlandu's letter aside, Ramza picked the next letter, this one being from Malak Galthana.

 _Greetings, Ramza. How have you been? Rafa has been pestering me to write you, and to find out about yours and Agrias's baby. I know Rafa and Agrias had some disagreements, but I think Rafa enjoyed having a strong woman around to look up to. As for me...well, I hope you know what you're getting yourself into. With everything that's happened, I can barely picture myself finding a woman, let alone raising a child. Still, Rafa seems to think you'll do fine and, considering all you've done for her, I can believe it. I was told that your old home has been abandoned and, since everyone thinks all the Beoulves are dead, the castle has become_ property _of the crown, along with your family's wealth. I_ guess, _since_ Delita _can't afford to exonerate you publically, giving you and your sister Lionel instead is his idea of offering something in return. I find all that ironic, considering Lionel was once the home of your enemy. I hope he pays you well to govern that province, and that your baby grows up in a better world than we did. As for my sister and I, we had returned to Riovanes. I know, I know, that surprised me too. But, Rafa had some mementos of our village there and, since the castle's treasury had been untouched by the Lucavi, I figured I might as well collect the 'severance pay' Barrington owed_ us, _since it would help us to make a new life for ourselves._

 _When I reached his treasury, however, I found his will tucked away inside. I read it and found, much to my surprise, that our adoptive father had named us his heirs and left his entire estate and fortune to us. I had to track down and question one of his former solicitors to make sure the document wasn't part of some twisted joke, but the whole thing is legal and binding. Perhaps, in his own twisted way, he did love us, though I can never forgive what he did to Rafa. She was hardly impressed by this gesture and, to make up for my years of willful ignorance, I have tried to appease her by putting our father's estate up for sale. But, to my dismay, I found that I could not find one buyer, even after offering it for a price that a scullery maid could afford. Apparently, a handful of knights and servants had managed to escape the Lucavi massacre and spread the word, as did the investigators who came to Riovanes after Barrington was killed. As a result, everyone now believes that Riovanes is haunted and we're now stuck with this unwanted inheritance whether we want it or not. But I suppose, for better or worse, Riovanes is still our home; it's not like we have anywhere else to go since our village was destroyed long ago. However, since the orphanages Barrington established have also come into our ownership, I find myself wondering if this might be a blessing in disguise. Not long ago, we were amongst those orphans. Barrington used them as a recruiting pool for his assassins but, maybe with him gone, some good can be done for those children. Maybe we might even be able to do some good with_ Riovanes, _like you probably will with Lionel. I can only hope that, in time, people will get over their fear about what happened here and we will be able to hire a staff again. Rafa and I won't be able to accomplish much if this_ places _comes down around our ears._

 _There is one other thing on my mind, however. I know this isn't my business, and that you always gave everyone in our group a lot of_ leeway _, but I really think you ought to do something about Rad and the twins. Maybe this is just me looking for ways to make up for how I let Rafa down, but I don't like the way Rad's always stringing_ Lavian _along. When I realized what Barrington had done to Rafa, all I could do was fume at my own stupidity, but_ Lavian _was able to put a smile back on her face. She was also able to shake me out of my self-recrimination and get me to see that I was making Rafa feel even worse by beating myself up. Well, I know Rad is a friend of yours, so maybe you could try and talk some sense into him. You do have quite a way of persuading people._

_Anyway, I'm looking forward to seeing you and the others again in Lesalia. If you can, bring the baby. Rafa will be thrilled to see the little one. Until then, take care._

_Malak Galthana_

Of all the myriad words and phrases that could describe Ramza's reaction to the netherseer's revelation, "blown away" likely came closest to the truth. The young Beoulve had to admit, despite having first met on opposite sides, he was impressed by Malak's grit. Still, he pitied the Galthana twins for having to live at Riovanes by themselves now that their adoptive father was dead, along with majority of their knights and staff who were killed in the massacre which became infamously known as 'The Horror of Riovanes'.

Those few who had managed to escape, and those fewer still who'd managed to keep their minds from coming undone by what they'd endured, had emphatically refused to return, and Ramza honestly couldn't blame them. Still, he shared Malak's hope that people would eventually get over their fear of the late Duke Barrington's home and help his unlikely heirs to make something good out of his depraved legacy.

He also found himself wondering at Malak's interest in Lavian. Aside from how difficult it must've been for Malak to admit his error in judgment regarding Rafa and what she'd been through, Ramza had found himself quite surprised to hear Malak express such an interest in another of the young Beoulve's companions. The netherseer had been slow to connect with his onetime foes and, as he had mentioned, he'd been quite caught up in his self-directed anger after the 'Horror of Riovanes'. Though, now that Ramza thought about it, Malak did seem to have cooled off some weeks later. He'd still been somewhat reserved with others, but he become less standoffish and had even allowed his brooding exterior to fall away. If Lavian had been able to bring that about, the young Beoulve found himself wondering what might happen if the two were to meet again.

After setting Malak's letter aside, Ramza got to the final letter in his stack, this one being from Meliadoul Tingel. Considering that the child Alma carried was Meliadoul's nephew or niece, Ramza was more than a bit anxious to learn what had befallen the former divine knight.

 _It has been some time, Ramza. I am writing to let you know that I am well, all things considered, and that I have found what I've been searching for since we vanquished Altima. I think I finally understand why Izlude died and why_ father _did the things he did. I only wished that I had seen the truth sooner; and, for that, I am sorry._

 _As for what I have been doing since I've heard rumors that creatures resembling the lesser demons we fought during the war are still on the loose in Ivalice. Most of these rumors are laughed off as drunken delusions; but, after what happened to Izlude and the Lucavi's other victims, I'm not taking any chances. I was able to track down Byblos and he (at least, I think Byblos is a he) has proven invaluable in tracking the fiends. It is strange, however, that he is so eager to fight his own kind, or that he would fight alongside humans. But, after what happened with my father, and with you, I suppose I should know that appearances can be deceiving._ Boco _has also proven valuable in carrying me to the reported sightings of these demons, not to mention chasing them down when they try to flee my blade. I thank you for lending him to me, and I hope I can return him to you unharmed._

 _As for what I will do when these reported demons dry up, I don't know. Like you, I have also been summoned to Lesalia, but I'm not sure if I want to go. Even with the lingering traces of demonkind to hunt, I have become lost; I no longer have anything to protect or hold dear, something that had been the crux of my entire life. Mustadio had offered me a place to stay in_ Goug _, but I fear I'd make poor company since he already has to support his father. Even so, with the benefit of hindsight, I suppose I do owe him an apology for the way I'd treated him during the war. At the time, I_ was so wrapped _up in my grief that it felt like he was smothering me. Now, that_ I'm alone save _for my hunting companions, I almost find myself missing him. Though, I will admit, re-gifting that Tynar Rouge hardly helped my impression of him._

 _In any case, I'm sorry to trouble you with these thoughts. I just needed to let it out, and I hope you understand. Now that father is gone, the entire_ Tingel _estate and fortune_ has _passed onto me, including Izlude's share. It's probably enough wealth to tantalize King_ Delita's _interest, though I would gladly give it all up if I could have my brother back. Anyway, if I don't come to Lesalia, I hope that we will meet again some other way. And, should you cross his path before I do, please tell Mustadio I regret that I did not show him the respect his kindness deserves. Yours truly,_

_Meliadoul Tingel_

Upon reading the former divine knight's words, Ramza's heart sank into his boots. Though none of those who'd fought at his side came away unscathed, even if they were happy nonetheless, this letter was truly disheartening. And, in spite of Meliadoul seeming to find some purpose in her upturned life, he could not help but wonder if the former divine knight might once more consider finding escape from her heavy heart upon the edge of her blade. In truth, however, he couldn't blame Meliadoul for feeling so low. He still had Alma, Malak still had Rafa, and Lavian still had Alicia. But, Meliadoul was utterly alone now that her parents and only brother was gone and that she'd discovered the church she had served faithfully her whole life was a fraud. With Vormav - or, more accurately, Hashmalum - as well as all of their other high-ranking officers dead, the order of Knights Templar had effectively ceased to exist. Granted, there was little use for them now that the Church of Glabados no longer had as much influence in Ivalice as they did before. Still, Ramza hoped that the former divine knight would change her mind and meet them in Lesalia. Perhaps the news that she would be an aunt in a few short months if Alma's pregnancy went well might rekindle the spark of life in her. Maybe Mustadio's fumbling affections might as well.

Ramza could not say. Though, he could not help a snicker of amusement at the barb Meliadoul had directed at the machinist. Like Ramza, Mustadio had been rather taken by Agrias and had thought to offer her some Tyner Rouge as a birthday gift. Procuring such an indulgence was no small matter, however. Mustadio had had to part with a fair bit of coin to obtain it, and it had been weeks before he'd received the goods.

However, by the time he'd had the lavish gift in hand, Agrias's pregnancy was quite visible and she and Ramza had professed their love.

Despite being somewhat harebrained on matters not relating to science and machinery, Mustadio had chosen not to intrude with such a provocative gesture. Instead, as he subsequently admitted to Ramza, he'd chosen to give the rouge to Meliadoul in the hope that a feminine trifle might ease her melancholy. Judging by the letter, however, her reaction must not have been what Mustadio had hoped for.

Feeling the anxiety that had kept him awake ebbing and his eyelids growing heavy, the young Beoulve tucked the letters in his desk drawer and made his way back into the master bedroom. Apart from the cradle, which even now held the last and most precious treasure of the once wealthy House Beoulve, the room seemed almost colorless. 'Almost' because his love was seated next to the slumbering infant, clad in a loose nightgown and with her long hair out of its usual braid, the reddish-blonde tresses cascading down her back and shoulders in soft, tumbling waves the color of a woven dawn. For a long moment, Ramza simply stood and watched as she brushed out her long hair, her eyes turning to gaze adoringly at the slumbering treasure tucked away next to her. A rare smile, precious beyond gil, lit up her features as she extended one leg to gently rock the cradle with one bare foot. The young Beoulve could swear he felt his eyes misting at the sight, especially when he recalled all the trials and tribulations which they had been through to reach this moment, and how easily it could have all ended up being for naught.

Ramza may have had no alternative to bringing his pregnant lover with him on his journey, but that did not change the fact that one slight shift of how events had unfolded could have easily seen them burying their child instead of rocking her to sleep.

"Ramza? Are you still up? Why don't you come to bed?" Agrias asked, breaking his reverie as she turned and spied him.

"Sorry, my love," he apologized. "I was just reading some letters from our friends. It looks like they're all doing pretty well. Mustadio and the Galthana twins will meet us in Lesalia, and my old classmates might as well. But, I'm not sure if Meliadoul can make it. Count Orlandu has decided to find a quiet corner of the land where he can retire in peace, and likely won't be able to come. He wants to keep his whereabouts a secret, but I would like for him to meet Rachel if he gets the chance. Mustadio has sent Cloud back to his own world, Luso's searching for his friends again, and Balthier has gone...well, nobody really knows."

While Ramza had been talking, Agrias had risen from her seat, pressed her lips against Rachel's tiny brow, and crawled under the sheets of the modest bed.

"Well, I can understand the Count not being able to make it," she opined, "but, Meliadoul? Why not?"

Ramza sighed as he slid under the covers and sidled over to his love. "I guess she's still not over Izlude's death. I can't blame her, since Alma isn't either. I worry for both of them," he said as he entwined his arms around Agrias.

"I understand, but there is nothing you can do but give them time to heal. You've already done all you could for this country and her people. It's time you think about your own happiness for once."

His earlier silent adoration for his love dawning once more in his mind, he replied simply "I know."

Tugging her in closer so that his form melded into hers, he took a moment to silently revel in how much she and their child meant to him. His hands roamed her torso, finding it softer than he remembered from their first night together, but just as smooth and with the warmth of happiness radiating from it rather than the chill of despair and disillusionment he recalled from the grim days following Ovelia's defection to Delita.

Normally, such a gesture would have elicited some grumbling from Agrias about the remaining weight gained during her pregnancy that yet lingered on her otherwise statuesque form, but all that passed her lips was a sigh that brought the young Beoulve up short.

"Is something wrong?" he asked, unable to keep a hint of urgency from his tone.

"Ramza…," Agrias began after a long pause. "With everything that's happened, I never had a chance to tell you that I'm sorry you lost your family's home. And, your name on top of that."

The young Beoulve smiled almost nonchalantly as he gently took Agrias's face in his hand before giving her a kiss. "Don't be," he whispered. "As long as I'm with you and Rachel, I am home. I already have all that I ever wanted and I regret nothing."

"I see…," Agrias replied, letting out a sigh of relief. "I'm glad you feel that way. There were times I found myself wondering if your life might've been simpler if...well..."

"Simpler doesn't always mean better. It would've been simpler to go back to Igros after Fort Zeakden, but I haven't wanted my old life back since Teta died. After that, after seeing that even a Beoulve could stoop so low as to go back on their word and take an innocent life, I wanted nothing to do with them. The castle, the wealth, the acclaim...it all seemed so pointless by comparison. I wanted to make something else of myself, something better."

It seemed that Agrias approved of his words, for she shimmied down in his grip and tucked her head beneath his chin.

"And, I'd say you've succeeded," she opined. "I know you've probably heard this before, but I think your father would have approved. And, I'm glad it's you who will be at my side as we raise our child."

"So am I…," Ramza paused for a moment, gently pressing the holy knight against him. And, in that moment, his ever-heavy heart seemed finally and truly mended as the light of their love shined upon it and sheared away the lingering thunderclouds of the War of the Lions.

Being with Agrias, raising their child, was a truly perfect island amidst the storm-tossed sea of time they'd traveled over the last two years and he did not want to leave it. Ever.

"Hey, Agrias?" he spoke up, surprised he could get the words past the lump in his throat.

"Yes?" she asked, her lambent bluish-green eyes rising to meet his sky blue orbs.

"I know that it's a bit late, but…,"

"But, what?"

With one in-drawn breath that summoned all the courage he could muster, he let out five small words with the power to change the world. "Will you marry me, Agrias?"

The holy knight stared at her love in shock for a moment before bursting into laughter.

"Yes, of course, I'll marry you, Ramza! I thought you'd never ask!" she answered before giving her fiancé a passionate kiss.

And, amidst the wonderment of their newly sealed pact to, at long last, wed, and beyond the blessed years that lay ahead as they would raise their daughter and keep her safe, there was more. It was a subtle fluttering of memory in the back of Ramza's mind which, little by little, coalesced into Delita's voice. When that distinct baritone spoke, Ramza heard, for the first time in a long time, the voice of his childhood friend. There was no calculating undertone, no cryptic words, and no veiled threats.

Instead, his words held what might be an oblique omen that, at long last, the darkness was lifting from the life of the young Beoulve whose pursuit of justice had made him an outcast.

 _In the back of Ramza's mind,_ Delita _said King's to you, Ramza..._

**A/N: Ok, Chapter 8 down. The next will cover Izlude's journey to Lesalia and treasure hunting along the way!**


	9. The Mask Becomes The Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Ok, we're back! After our interlude with Ramza and company, it is now time to return to the journey of Izlude after he leaves the Fredericks' farm in Kohlingen Village. Once again, I would like to thank my co-writer and editor, Falchion1984 for his help in making this story possible; I hope our readers noticed and appreciate our references to other well-loved Final Fantasy titles as well!

The reconstruction that followed the War of the Lions, referred to by some romantic souls as the 'Revivification', was an era in Ivalician history which held a special place in the hearts of both those who'd lived through it and those who, in later generations, would read about it with rapt fascination. It was remembered as a tumultuous era, almost as much so as the War of the Lions itself, but also an era that saw other wounds, older and more malignant than those of half a century of war, begin to heal as the newly crowned King Delita Hyral, having established himself as the sole power broker in Ivalice, began to guide his realm on a bold new course...

...and which caused those aware of Delita's true legacy, of the sordid journey he'd taken from his youth as a Beoulve ward to his life as Ivalice's liege, to wonder just how long a man can walk the precipice of achieving righteous ends through reprehensible means until he toppled over the edge.

In the aftermath of the War of the Lions, swords and shields were set aside in favor of plowshares and pickaxes. Though the bloodletting had ceased once the battle horns had, at long last, fallen silent, the kingdom's economic ruin could yet still birth specters of death no less grim than the horrors of war. Thus, before the ink was dry on the treaty which had ended the conflict, people of all descriptions were hard at work, frantically laboring to revive Ivalice's economy. As the flood waters in Gallione receded and rain returned to drought stricken Limberry, the winding roads of Ivalice soon thronged with farmers and merchants eager to sell their wares, as well as once displaced peoples who sought to reclaim their abandoned homes or to raise new ones in pastures newly green. Travelers on these myriad roads, such as the winding path between Fort Besselat and Dorter, would often remark that such a journey took them on a voyage through history, and more than a few of their accounts would be romanticized as poems for later generations. A recurring observation of these travelers, and a recurring theme in these poems, was that, on those well-trod paths, the past and the present had a strange way of intermingling before one's eye.

The land surrounding Fort Besselat, much of which had turned into a marsh after the sluice had been opened, was now dotted with many a reminder of Ivalice's grim past and her still uncertain future. In places along the banks of the newly formed Besselat Marsh, fallen soldiers had been given a modest burial, their final resting places marked solely by a naked sword sheathed in the earth. Conversely, newly built villages had been raised from the muck by people eager to find a brighter future now that the battle horns had fallen silent.

Much of the lands in Limberry had been ravaged by drought, and the aftereffects could be seen in the numerous dead trees that stood amidst vast coronas of withered grass. And yet, precious rain had returned, causing dry ruts to fill with crystalline rivulets of life giving water and, slowly but surely, the breadbasket of eastern Ivalice was turning green once more.

As the realm's coin, already scarce after the disastrous Fifty Years War, had been divided and depleted again when Ivalice turned against herself, poverty and over taxation had sent shock waves across the land that no temblor could manage. Many villages had been abandoned by people who'd had no work and had been bled dry of coin, and these deserted homes still dotted the landscape, forlorn and haunted by the ghosts of brighter days. Yet, just as many of these villages had begun to fill up again, weary Ivalicians mending the long neglect of these once forsaken hamlets and hoping the sweat of their brows would win them a second chance at the futures they'd so nearly lost.

A journey through such a tableau could make even the most lackadaisical of men conscious of their own mortality, of how capricious the river of time can be, not only in its ebb and flow but in who it chooses to drag under and when. It also brought to the fore the knowledge that, from the wealthiest of souls to the most impoverished, each and all can have a great deal which they treasure, but which they seldom appreciate until after it has been lost. Whether it is one's family, one's home, one's friends, one's work, or even such simple things as having a sturdy roof over one's head and a warm bed to sleep in.

Each and all could be retained for a lifetime and taken for granted all the while; but, they could also be lost in an instant and pined after for years.

People who traveled those paths, where grim reminders of bygone days and signs of hopeful future abounded, inevitably found themselves wondering just how easily they could have found themselves anomalously consigned beneath that sod and those down-turned blades.

Such journeys tended to be quiet affairs, the gravity and depth of the moment acting as a voiceless but insistent warning that kept tongues from breaking the almost sacred solemnity of the pilgrimage.

"WARK!"

Well, most tongues, anyway. Chocobos suffering the pangs of hunger tended to overlook such decorum.

Izlude, who'd been deep in the throes of a mental debate over whether he should feel grateful or guilty that his two and a half month coma had spared him from seeing the grimmer side of the living history he beheld, jumped in his stirrups before regaining his composure. He glanced down to see Nelly eyeing him impatiently and, not for the first time, reminding him why he'd given her a name so near to his sister's.

Well, the sister he remembered, anyway. The Meliadoul he'd seen in the vision of Orbonne and in the skirmish at Bervenia seemed vastly different, and Izlude found himself regretting that he hadn't treasured his sister's once vivacious spirit during their youth together.

With a little luck, perhaps the same luck that had allowed him to be rescued after being devoured by the flood at Besselat, he would be able to tell her that.

"Come on, girl, I know you're hungry, but we're almost there; just a little further!" Izlude cooed as he gently prodded his mount onward.

The disguised knight blade and his mount had been traveling for almost a week since they left Kohlingen Village, and the journey had been one which had struck Izlude profoundly. Granted, he had expected that he would be greeting a strange new world after departing the Fredericks' humble farm, but he'd clearly underestimated the gravity of the changes which had been wrought during his two and a half month coma. The kingdom of Ivalice that he remembered - which had been crumbling under the weight of warfare, political intrigue, bitterness, and starvation - seemed to have been washed away by the flames of war just as surely as the flame washes flesh from bone. In its place was a land that was taking its first shaky steps into a strange and uncertain future.

Yet, for all that, he did not catch even a whiff of despair.

As he passed farmers guiding wagons laden with crops bound for the market, he could hear grateful chatter about once fallow fields that were now lush again.

As he passed half built villages, much akin to the one he'd just left, he saw children at play and parents sagging with relief that the shadow of death was receding.

As he guided his agitated mount closer to the gates of Dorter Trade City, he could feel the exuberance of the bustling crowd as once empty markets were brimming over with goods once more.

And, as he entered the gates, he could smell the mouth-watering aroma of cooking meats wafting heavenwards from a hundred chimneys...which, after a week of eating bland trail rations, was simply too tantalizing to ignore.

Though the kind elderly couple who had nursed Izlude back to health had been more than generous in supplying the knight blade with food and water for his journey, and while Izlude was capable of eating and sleeping on the road if need be, he was quite enamored with the notion of eating his meals at a proper table and sleeping in a warm bed. As the knight blade and his mount entered Dorter, he let his gaze roam the city. Located along a valuable artery of Ivalice, Dorter was a hub of commerce with goods and peoples from all over. In better years, the aptly named trade city was littered with stalls and shops selling goods of every description, whether it be weapons, armor, jewelry, artwork, foodstuffs, livestock, clothing, and all manner of items which spanned the range from the rare to the commonplace, from the bizarre to the mundane, and from the priceless to the practical. People would come from all over to sell these wares, and even more people would come to buy them.

Since Dorter was located at a key crossroads of Ivalice - from which there was easy access to the provinces of Gallione, Lesalia, Limberry, and Lionel - the population was as diverse as its commerce. Amidst the babble of voices, a discerning ear could hear the mellifluous and smooth accents which characterized Gallione, the lilting tones and vowel shifts of Lesalia, the precise staccato and curious vowel shifts with which Limberry natives spoke, and the sound of Lionel's slow rising pitch and peculiar consonants. Voices from those provinces which intersected on Dorter's doorstep were the most abundant. However, the thick burr and glottal stops of Favoham and Zeltennia's lyrical tones and lengthened vowels would also echo in ones ear.

The Gallione accent, Izlude reflected, was particularly pleasing to his ear. On the one hand, the smooth and open tones had a unique way of inspiring trust in the listener, much like Gallione's most famous native, Balbanes Beoulve...or, for that matter, its most infamous native, Ramza Beoulve.

And, on the other hand, the Gallione accent also had a sensual undertone which called to mind the woman who Izlude had carried away as a captive, only for the jailer's keys to change hands as he'd become more and more enchanted by her.

He longed with all his heart to see Alma again; and, with Lesalia but a few leagues to the north, it seemed their reunion was drawing near.

Izlude was shaken from his reverie when he heard the patterned tone shifts and even paced words of Murond natives, possibly belonging to those acting on behalf of the Church of Glabados. These he avoided as he made his way through the city, lest they catch wind of the holy relic hidden in his pocket.

Even that near miss, however, could not truly wrench Izlude's attention from the sights he beheld. Much like the lands around it, Dorter was also a place which bore the wounds of the past and where, in places, those wounds were slowly but surely healing.

In good years, Dorter was a remarkable tableau of sights, sounds, smells, and tastes, with innumerable untold stories behind every merchant, customer, product, and transaction.

In good years, Dorter was a place where one could work hard, earn generous wages, and live well upon reaching old age.

The past few years, however, had not been good.

As floods and drought had destroyed crops and left Ivalice's farmers with nothing to harvest, the merchants in Dorter had found themselves with nothing to sell. And, even those who did have goods had only been able to acquire them at such expense and trouble that the price of all goods, especially food, had surged heavenwards. Many would-be buyers could not pay, and more than a few had been driven to desperation by the all too real prospect of starvation.

Some turned to indentured servitude, others to prostitution, and more than a few towards violence.

And, as if that wasn't enough, Dorter's strategic value had not been overlooked during the war. Both the White and Black Lions coveted the inroads which control of Dorter might allow into their rival's lands, and so Dorter became yet another flash point in the war which had nearly undone Ivalice. Armies had laid siege in an effort to starve out the defenders. The walls had been scaled and the gates breached, which caused fighting to spill into the streets. There had been bombardments with magic and siege weapons, sending in hails of arcane and mundane projectiles which crushed buildings and set others afire.

Much of this damage was still in evidence, but it seemed the city was on the mend. Once abandoned stalls were manned again, and offering a modest variety of goods at tolerable prices. Scaffolds encompassed the growing skeletons of new buildings while rubble was cleared away to be used as building material. And, in a trickle that might one day become a flood, goods were arriving from far off places, as were people eager to buy them.

Dorter was a far cry from its former splendor; but, just as surely as Izlude believed that Ramza had prevailed against the Lucavi, he believed that Dorter would, one day, reclaim the glory of bygone days.

As Izlude continued his perusal, he caught sight of a number of people at work in the city. These had the look of former knights who, like himself, were finding their way now that the fires of war had guttered out. When he drew close enough to discern their features, accents, and words, however, he realized that many of these former knights were Nantan and Hokutan. No less startling, several members of both groups were wearing the same uniforms.

Emblazoned on these was a crest which Izlude had never seen before...at least, not in the waking world.

In the strange vision he'd had just before waking from his coma, however, he'd seen one which was eerily similar.

The chief feature was a fanciful but ferocious looking creature whose features boggled the imagination.

Even in a land such as Ivalice, it was most uncommon to see a creature with several mismatched heads.

One of the heads was a lion, whose thick mane featured alternating patterns of ivory white and ebony black and which wore a crown upon its brow. Another was the beaked head of an eagle...or, perhaps, a gryphon. The next was the scaled serpentine head of a wyvern. And the final head was that of a hideous, glaring woman from whose pate sprouted dozens of hissing snakes.

 _Just like the crest of the armor Ramza was wearing in that dream when he..._ Izlude mused, unable to finish the thought.

Though he had good cause to believe both Beoulve siblings had survived the final confrontation with the Lucavi, the image of Alma having been corrupted by demonkind, and Ramza killing her, still chilled him to the bone.

Shaking himself back to attention, he continued his study of these strange uniforms. The body from which these myriad heads sprouted was broad and powerfully built, with alternating patterns of glistening scales and tawny fur, which ended in the sharp, barbed tail of a wyvern. The creature had been daubed in flight, a pair of huge eagle's wings spread wide as if the creature were soaring over the battlefield. The forelimbs were well muscled, covered in more fur, and ending in leonine paws with unsheathed claws. The hind limbs were the stumpy scaled legs of a wyvern, ending in grasping claws from which sprouted long, hooked talons.

"You still getting used to it too?" a voice spoke up from behind.

The disguised knight blade gasped and craned his neck in the direction of the sound, his heart thudding in his breast at the intrusion. Perhaps the lingering knowledge that Murond natives were about had eroded his customary reserve, or maybe it was some lingering aftereffect of his various brushes with death. Whatever the reason, he was profoundly relieved when the man who'd spoken only smiled and held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. Izlude bit back a sigh of relief that this man didn't seem hostile, but his relief gave way to surprise when he saw this man was also wearing the same uniform as the former Hokuten and Nanten he'd spied earlier...

...which, considering this man's Lionel accent likely meant he was a Gryphon, was more than a little strange.

"Sorry about that, I didn't mean to startle you," the former Gryphon apologized, tugging at his peculiar garb. "Truth be told, I'm still getting used to them myself."

Izlude must've allowed his perplexity to work its way onto his features, for the former Gryphon regarded him curiously for a moment before he apparently came to some realization.

"You haven't seen these before, have you?" he asked, a hint of amusement in his tone.

"Well, no," Izlude admitted sheepishly, absently noting that the stone once more gave his voice a Favoham burr.

Seeing that the former Gryphon's eyebrow had arched in curiosity, Izlude mulled over just what to say next. Though Doug knew Izlude had survived the flood at Besselat, he found himself thinking others might find such a tale hard to swallow. And, in any case, it might attract attention that the former knight blade would rather avoid.

"I came from the village of Kohlingen," he began, deciding to use the truth as a startling point and then try to craft it into something innocuous. "The village is only half built, if even, so I've been sowing fields and hammering in nails since before the war ended. This is the first time I've been able to get away in months."

For a long moment, the former Gryphon eyed him curiously, and Izlude found himself perspiring under the scrutiny. Could there have been some flaw in his tale? It seemed doubtful that the former Gryphon had even heard about Kohlingen, let alone knew enough to sniff out what Izlude had really been doing for most of his time there. But still, the former Gryphon's scrutiny caused Izlude to fear he'd made some miscalculation in his story which had piqued the man's interest...

...which, considering Izlude was a 'dead' man living under an assumed identity and carrying around a supposed holy relic, could prove disastrous.

Luckily, after a stretching second, the former Gryphon smiled and nodded.

"Must feel strange being back in civilization after so long in the sticks, eh?" he asked teasingly, and then gesturing to his uniform. "Well, this is the crest of the Order of the Chimera, which King Delita founded not long ago. With so little left of the Hokuten, Nanten, Aegis Knights, Wyverns, and Gryphons, he figured it was better to start from scratch. A number of survivors from the old orders have signed on as officers and new recruits will be coming from everywhere. I myself heard about it a few weeks ago. I'd found my billet in Lionel...unsatisfying after Celebrant Bremondt took over, so I resigned. Might not have been the wisest move, since work was so scarce then, but I was able to earn a place in this new order. Signing on was probably the best decision I ever made."

Partway through his speech, the former Gryphon's voice had taken on a husky tone, as though underlying emotion was bubbling to the surface, while a sad smile crossed his features.

"Surprising, isn't it?" the former Gryphon asked, almost absently. "King Delita, a man born into poverty, rising to become the commander of one of the most powerful knightly orders in Ivalice. Then, almost overnight, he tops that by becoming king. And, one of the first things he does when he gets there is christen a new order and build it using people he's fought with, people he's fought against, and others who passed the war on the sidelines but somehow got bloodied up anyway. When he formed the Order of the Chimera, he said this meant that, from now on, all of Ivalice's fighting men and women were on the same side. Imagine my surprise when that actually worked. If Delita's rise from a serf's son to a storybook prince didn't impress the masses, his success in founding the Chimera surely did."

The former knight blade found himself nodding in mute amazement; not three months ago, these men and women had been killing each other by the thousands. Yet now, they labored side by side, shoulder to shoulder with soldiers and ordinary citizens, working to rebuild what was destroyed during the war. No less remarkable, Izlude could see little to no reproach or hostility passing between the former rivals. Though the knight blade didn't doubt that there were many scars on both sides, he also suspected that, regardless of wartime allegiances, everyone was profoundly relieved the conflict was over and that neither side had been much aggrieved at the deaths of their former lords. It was no secret that both Dukes Larg and Goltana were deeply despised by their own knights and subjects alike, as both of the pretenders to Ivalice's throne had shown no compunction against sacrificing as many people as it took to sate their lust for power. Even though he was a nobleman himself, Izlude had nonetheless felt his hackles rise at the sight of power hungry nobles toying with the lives of innocent people and throwing away the lives of their subjects like so many pawns in a chess game. For that reason, he had hoped that the church's plans to topple the monarchy would end this terrible cycle, and yet he'd instead discovered that the clergy he'd sought to aid had been subverted by an evil far worse than any warmongering noble could equal.

But now, with Delita having seized control of the church's scheme, and seizing the crown along with it, Izlude found himself wondering if the future he'd thought the Knights Templar would build might, indeed, come to pass...

...or, for that matter, whether the man who'd become king through manipulation, deceit, and murder might wreak havoc beyond even what Larg and Goltana's misrules had wrought.

Izlude could not say. What he could say, however, was that Dorter still had some hard times ahead and that restoring the city to its former splendor might take months, if not years.

But, though there must surely be many who shared this realization, nobody seemed daunted by this truth.

There was worry, there was exhaustion, there was relief, there was frustration, there were the signs of cautious optimism, and there were the signs of sleepless nights. But, for all that, there was no despair.

And, perhaps, that was enough for the people of Ivalice to prevail as they sought to reclaim their future.

"So, you're looking for work, I take it?" the former Gryphon asked, once more shocking Izlude back to wakefulness.

"Ah," Izlude replied, blushing a bit at his wandering mind. "Sorry about that. Anyhow, yes, I'm looking for work."

"Well, you picked the right place. People from all over are hiring, and some of them pay very well. I myself plan to stay a knight for some time, but you look like the sort who could stand to learn a trade."

"Well, like you said, this is the place."

"So it is."

The former Gryphon had been about to part company with the knight blade, but Izlude found himself wondering if he ought to ask the man more. If he'd been a man of Lionel, and Alma was living under her assumed identity in Lionel Castle, might this man have seen her there? While he had good cause to believe Alma had escaped her Lucavi captors, some proof that she was still alive and doing well would greatly ease his heart. But, how to ask without arousing the former Gryphon's suspicions? Deciding that he had little to lose by trying, he decided on the direct approach.

"I was wondering one thing, though," he called out, causing the former Gryphon to turn. "You said you came from Lionel, correct?

"That I did," the former Gryphon confirmed.

"I'd heard rumor that the king had appointed a pair of his cousins as the new duke and duchess of the province. Did you, perchance, see them before you left?"

Again, the former Gryphon raised an eyebrow, and Izlude once more found himself wondering if it would've been wiser to pursue a more surreptitious line of questioning. But, after a stretching second, the former Gryphon shook his head.

"I'm afraid not," he admitted. "I had considered transferring back to Lionel Castle, but it might be a while before they can afford to pay me for guarding them. Still, that could change. And, judging by what I've heard about those two, I might enjoy being in their service."

"The rumors I've heard suggest they are fine people," Izlude affirmed, choking down an illicit laugh at the depth of that understatement.

"Well, who knows? If that doesn't work out, I might join the king's delegation when it sails to Romanda to establish new trade agreements. I've been there before, in more peaceful times, and seeing your glossy ebon tresses reminds me of the people I met there and how much I miss it. In the meantime, I'd best be getting back to my duties. Good luck in your search. And, if your search takes you to Lionel, say that Sir Alian LeRoche vouched for you."

"I just might, and thank you."

With that, Sir Alian took his leave and Izlude found himself wondering if they might, indeed, meet again in Lionel after his reunion with Alma.

If so, then the tale of how Izlude had gone from "the sticks" to standing at the side of Duchess 'Catherine Seymour' would make for an...interesting conversation.

Still, that was an eventuality he could concern himself with later.

After letting his eyes wander over the scene before him for a moment longer, the knight blade decided that, whether the stone was good or evil, he was grateful it had allowed him to see this new future unfold. Then, Izlude's mind turned back to the task at hand. It had been a long journey from Kohlingen, and both the former knight blade and his mount were dead on their feet. Yet, weary though he was, Izlude knew he had much to do before he could, finally, pass the night in a proper bed. The first thing he needed to do was book a room at a local inn, rent a stall at the stables for his mount, and make sure Nelly was fed, lest she take it into her beaked head that being hurled from the saddle might make her rider more attentive to her needs. Once that was done, he would need to head back out into town to restock his provisions and look for work. Judging by what Doug had told him, and the bustle in the battered but still lively city, the knight blade suspected he would have no trouble finding a job. Given the immense demand for labor in this time of rebuilding, Izlude didn't doubt for a moment that there would be a multitude of positions available...

...which, considering he wasn't entirely certain of his talents outside of swordsmanship, might prove either an opportunity or a complication.

A knight's son, born and bred, Izlude had first picked up a wooden sword when he was strong enough to pick himself up off the floor and walk and on his own two feet. A metal sword had found its way into his hand but a few short years later, and he'd begun the arduous task of acquainting himself with the weapon's weight and balance, as well as building up his arms so that they might bear the mass of iron that men and women in Ivalice lived and died by. As he grew older, he learned forms, stances, tactics, how to maintain, don, and maneuver in heavy armor, how to read his opponent's moves and eyes to discern what they'd do next, how to ride chocobos, how to fight in the saddle as well as afoot, and many other skills of a knight of Ivalice.

What he hadn't learned was how to mine ore, plow fields, sow and harvest crops, cook anything more elaborate than wild game over a campfire, bake confections that sold fresh from the oven, work cloth and leather into garb fine or practical, how to work metal into tools, weapons, or armor, how to cut gemstones, to manage finances, to keep a shop, to shape wood and stone into buildings, how to recognize and gather medicinal herbs and distill them into potions, or any other trade likely to be in demand now that the war had ended.

Still, during his knightly tutelage, he had acquired great drive, discipline, an agile mind, and the ability to react quickly to sudden and strange shifts in the expected flow of events.

If he had to build his future solely out of his own inner resources, trusting in them to act as a sufficient foundation for whatever future he planned to build during his second life, he believed they would be enough.

Besides, he mused with a stifled laugh, if I really couldn't learn a new trade, I would've been caught during my time as a 'spy' or kicked off the Fredericks' farm for being more trouble than I was worth. Neither of those things happened, so I think I can manage.

Snickering at this own musings, he took a moment to go over the timetable he'd devised during his last night with the Fredericks. He still had a month before the ball in Lesalia, which was a fair bit of time, though he would have to make sure none of it went to waste. A job in Dorter - or, failing that, work anywhere between Dorter and Lesalia - would be ideal, as he would not have to worry about losing too much time traveling back to Dorter once he'd earned the money he needed. From there, he would use his earnings to purchase new clothes for himself, as well as gifts for the new Duchess of Lionel. After that, he would travel to Lesalia to present himself. With luck, the stone would choose that moment to undo his disguise, and he would be reunited with his beloved Alma at long last. Though, after his near-misses with the Fredericks and Sir Alian, he realized that he would also need to craft a plan for how to present himself to her. Even if the stone did shed the mask it had devised for him, Izlude might need to answer some questions about who he was and where he'd come from in the meantime.

He'd been fortunate that neither the Fredericks nor Alian had questioned him at length, otherwise, his improvised answers might become entangled and aroused their suspicions.

He would not enjoy such luck when he got to Lesalia, however. Undoubtedly, a man vying for the new duchess's favor would be under considerable scrutiny, and any discrepancies in his tale could prove fatal.

Izlude had been mulling over the content of his 'life story', considering topics likely to arise and how best to answer, when another thought occurred to him.

He'd been going on the assumption that the holy stone would undo his disguise once he'd found Alma.

What if it didn't?

That would raise the question of just how Izlude could alert Alma as to his identity, especially since his new voice and appearance were quite different from that which he'd shed back in Riovanes. Before he could mull over how to approach this latest complication, another thought occurred to him.

What if these new features, this new face he'd been given on the first day of his second life, remained with him until he faced the cold darkness of death for the second and last time?

He didn't know; indeed, he hadn't the faintest notion of how he might find out.

Turning the notion over in his mind, he dismounted Nelly, found the window of an empty storefront, and gazed at the distorted reflection that appeared before him.

Not for the first time, he needed a moment to realize that the face staring back at him was his own.

His features, though decidedly out of place, were not displeasing to look at. However, now that the prospect had occurred to him, Izlude wasn't sure if he relished the idea of having to live under the persona of Damien Mitchel for the rest of his life. Granted, the possibility had been at the back of his mind for some time now, since Izlude Tingel had been officially declared dead by the Church of Glabados and it might raise a lot of questions if the brunette and green-eyed knight blade was discovered to be alive and walking amongst the living. In fact, upon reflection. Izlude realized that would've been the case even if the holy stone could undo its alterations to his features.

He would not get his name back, that much he knew. And, though he had been prepared for the possibility of living under a false name, he wasn't certain if was ready to live under a false face as well.

Yet, now that he thought about it, what alternative was there? After all, if 'Damien Mitchell' presented himself to Catherine Seymour as a man with jet black hair and steel-gray eyes, but was then spotted sometime after with chestnut brown hair and emerald green eyes, someone would surely take notice.

Izlude's introspection was broken when Nelly let out another indignant 'wark', and Izlude came back to himself. Deciding that his weary mind could juggle only so many weighty questions at a time, he thought it best to seek his lodgings and get some rest. Apart from his spinning head, his legs and back were dreadfully sore from spending nearly eight hours in the saddle. Gently tugging on Nelly's reins to lead her onward, Izlude looked around until he spotted a small inn not far away. Since it was still early, he decided it would be best to book a room now before nightfall, lest the inn get filled to capacity with travelers who'd decided that they preferred spending the night rather than journeying home in the dark. Leading Nelly by the reins, Izlude made his way to the inn's stables and left his faithful mount in the care of the stable hands. After paying for the stall, he left a bit more coin as well as instructions that she was to be preened, rubbed down well, and fed choco stew rather than raw greens. That done, he went inside to book a room. The lobby and common room were fairly quiet, as guests were more likely to be checking in during the evening hours. The clerk, a young woman who was going over the inn's ledger with an obvious lack of interest, glanced up as he approached the front desk. At first, the knight blade thought she was simply eager for any distraction from the tedium of tallying up the inn's revenue and expenses but, as he drew closer, Izlude realized that she was staring at him with an expression of mingled perplexity and amazement.

"Is something the matter, Miss?" he asked, valiantly struggling to keep a hint of alarm from seeping into his tone.

As soon as she realized she was staring at the knight blade, the clerk, no doubt fearful that she'd scared off a prospective customer, immediately apologized. "Oh, I'm sorry, sir! I didn't mean to be rude, it's just that I've never seen anyone with hair and eyes like yours before! Where are you from?"

Her words startled Izlude. He'd been so caught up in his plans for reuniting with Alma and his introspection of Dorter's state and the changes he'd witnessed in the few days since he'd set out from Kohlingen, that he had nearly forgotten just how odd his new features must appear. In fact, now that he thought about it, he remembered how the bustle in town would briefly grind to a halt as he'd passed, likely because the people had been taking in his unusual appearance and wondering what to make of such a peculiar specimen. Black hair and gray eyes were, to put it mildly, most uncommon among native Ivalicians, as most people amongst the seven provinces had hair of varying shades of brown and blonde, along with blue, green, and brown eyes. People with red hair were quite scarce, but black hair and gray eyes were an exceedingly rare combination and, since Izlude could not readily explain these oddities, he suddenly found himself wondering if the clerk might seek a second opinion...

...from the local authorities.

Frantically, Izlude tried to think of something, anything that might serve as a believable, and innocuous, cover story. But, as the knight blade had admitted to himself, he had no great gift for spycraft and subterfuge. Then, just as he was entertaining the idea of bolting for the door, he felt a curious warmth emanating from his pocket.

The holy stone.

What it was doing now, he could not say. But, strangely, he felt a childhood memory rise to the forefront of his mind. It was the first time he'd dueled Meliadoul, with steel swords rather than wood. He remembered that he'd been afraid of hurting his older sister, but she'd just laughed that husky laugh of hers and told him that part of being a knight was being able to trust ones brothers and sisters-in-arms, not only in their ability to defeat the enemy but also in their ability to safeguard their own lives.

More than that, however, Meliadoul had told him that he would also need to learn to trust himself rather than allow fear to leech away his strength and scatter his wits.

Why the stone had chosen to echo this memory, and how it had done so, Izlude had no idea. But, now that the quavering in his heart had stilled, another memory sprang to mind; and, with it, a solution.

"Well, who knows? If that doesn't work out, I might join the king's delegation when it sails to Romanda to establish new trade agreements. I've been there before, in more peaceful times, and seeing your glossy ebon tresses reminds me of the people I met there and how much I miss it."

Thinking quickly, the knight blade shook his head as though trying to jolt his thoughts back into motion. "Sorry, Miss, I have been out in the sticks so long that I'm still getting used to being back in civilization again. I am of Romandan descent. My grandparents emigrated from there during the Fifty Years War, not long before Romanda withdrew from the conflict. But, I was actually born and raised in Yardow, before I left and became a knight at Riovanes Castle in the service of the late Duke Barrington."

For a stretching second, the clerk regarded Izlude in thoughtful silence, as if contemplating whether or not to believe his story. And, despite the stone's reassuring weight at his hip, the knight blade could not help but feel a renewed sense of anxiety. Did Doug and Helen also notice his strange hair and eye color, but had been too polite to say anything about them or pry into his background? For that matter, could his recollection of Sir Alian's words about Romanda have been flawed? He had been rather distracted at the time by the sight of the Chimera Knights and the gravity of Delita having successfully built a new knightly order out of people who'd once been at each other's throats. Before he could ponder the matter further, the clerk simply smiled and said "I see. What's your name, sir?"

Remembering his near miss during his first encounter with Doug after he awoke form his coma, Izlude answered without hesitation. "I am Damien Mitchell, former bodyguard of Duke Garreth Barrington and knight of Fovoham's Order of the Wyverns." As he said this, he pulled out his dog tag and showed it to the clerk who eyed it with great interest.

"Former knight? You mean you are not a knight anymore?"

Izlude shook his head. "No. My former employer paid his knights rather poorly, so I left Riovanes to join the Goltana army. I served with them until the war ended and, afterwards, remained in Limberry for a time helping to resettle displaced villagers."

Upon hearing this, the clerk raised an eyebrow. "Really? In that case, you were very lucky. You do know what happened at Riovanes Castle, right? The fact that you're standing in front of me, with both your life and your wits, tells me you probably left before that horrible incident."

"I did. Just days before. I was stunned when I heard the news. But, I didn't dare go back to see to the survivors. I had already signed on with Goltana by then, and if I'd asked his leave to travel to a province that was practically next door to his rivals, he probably would've suspected treachery and have me hung on the spot."

"I see. Anyway, it's nice to meet you, Sir Damien. Here's your key. You'll be staying in room 20, upstairs near the end of the hall."

By the time the clerk had handed over the key, the knight blade was certain that his near misses had left him flushed and perspiring. Relieved that he could pass such off as readjusting to the bustle of a busy city, and grateful that he now had an excuse to leave, Izlude took the key from the clerk. After paying for the room, he hefted his pack and went upstairs. He found his room precisely where the clerk had said and, the moment he was safely inside, the knight blade sagged against the door and breathed a sigh of relief. He still couldn't be sure if the front desk clerk believed him or not, but the brush with disaster Izlude had had with her, as well as Sir Alian and the Fredericks, drove home the point that he would need to get used to presenting himself as Damien to everyone, not just Alma. No less important, he would have to have his cover story in place by the time he reached Lesalia.

Damien Mitchell could not simply be a name Izlude had fished out of a corpse pile. His new-found mask had to become the man.

Izlude Tingel had to become Damien Mitchell; not just in name, but in mien.

If he was going to get near Alma, he would have to devise a background for Damien. He had the bare bones of where Damien was from and the reason for his curious features, but it stood to reason that the people he'd be dealing with in Lesalia would question him at greater length. And, he would need to not only produce answers, but he would need to do so quickly, convincingly, and without any inconsistencies or contradictions that might cause his mask to slip...

...which, considering Izlude had about as much capacity for deception in him as a squirrel, would be no small task.

He weighed his options and decided that, perhaps, he could use some of his time in Dorter to get used to his new persona. Having at least some idea of where to start in terms of crafting his new identity, he could check for flaws in the tale by socializing with strangers while on the hunt for a job, which would have the added benefit of allowing him to gather information as well. While he was fairly confident that the stone would rescue him from potential disaster, as it had done back at the front desk, he thought it unwise to expect it to get him out of every conceivable mishap. Though the stone had disguised his features and voice, as well as protected him and Nelly from drowning during the flooding at Fort Besselat, he still could not be certain of how or why it had done so, or even why it had chosen to undo his death in the first place.

He wasn't keen on finding out if the stone's willingness to aid him had its limits, nor what might ensue if the stone's patience ran out during an awkward moment.

As he mulled over possible facets of Damien's life, he found himself wondering just what he'd do if he encountered someone who knew the real Sir Damien Mitchel. Though the late Wyvern's dog tags suggested that Damien had had no immediate family, Izlude could not be certain if the deceased knight had friends who might chance across his path. He had assumed that all of Damien's intimate friends were amongst the dead of Riovanes and that, even if some had escaped the massacre, they would be too unhinged to recognize their former friend traipsing about in spite of his supposed death.

But, should he encounter someone who had known Damien, who would recognize the knight blade's borrowed face crossed his path, he was at a loss as to how he might negotiate such a potentially explosive confrontation.

Grimly, Izlude realized that such an encounter was best avoided and that, if he spied anyone who seemed to know him or called him by name, but who Izlude did not know, the knight blade would do well to evade them.

At least, he reflected grimly, the prospect of such a course of action would weigh less heavily on his conscience since Damien would have no grieving widow or children for Izlude to blunder into.

Circling back to those encounters he might be able to handle, Izlude realized that, if anyone else commented on his hair and eyes, he would also have to remember to mention 'Damien's' Romandan heritage, as well as his service as a former knight of Riovanes.

With the pounding in his ears having subsided as he set his thoughts in order, Izlude began to mull over what to do next. Although it was still early afternoon, the knight blade was exhausted from his long ride and decided to rest in his room for a few hours before heading back out again. The room's bed was a bit firm for his liking, especially given the stiffness and saddle sores from his long journey, but it was certainly an improvement over bedding down on the cold, hard turf outside. Still, sleep proved elusive for some time. Whether it was the urgency of crafting a convincing persona or the anticipation of reuniting with his beloved Alma, he could not say. What he could say, however, was that this would likely prove to be another in a lengthy succession of restless nights.

After whiling away several hours by working on his new persona, the results of which could best be described as questionable, Izlude saw that the evening was still quite young. With an irate groan, he rose and left the room, deciding that a walk might help to calm his churning thoughts and soothe his taut nerves. He exited the inn, grateful that the clerk he'd met earlier had apparently gone home for the night, and paid a brief visit to the inn's stables to check up on Nelly. After seeing that his faithful mount was as hale and hearty as ever, he headed into town. Even at night, Dorter was a lively place. A favorite trading spot for farmers, craftsmen, merchants, and other agents of commerce from all over Ivalice, hence its reputation as 'The City of Merchants', Dorter was also a city that didn't sleep. Even in the wee hours, businesses that catered to their own clientele - late arriving travelers, fellow merchants eager to spend coin on leisure after a hard day's work, and clients of questionable character - were open and doing a brisk business. By day or by night, Dorter was a place where anything could be found-for a price. By night, these could include such simple pleasures as a round of beers, a candlelight dinner, or a carriage ride by moonlight.

Though, Dorter also had many pleasures of a darker sort to offer.

Even during the best years, the Trade City had a seedy underbelly. In addition to the vast plethora of legal merchandise sold in the city, rumors abounded of illegal goods and activities which flourished in the darker corners of Dorter. Assuming one knew where to look, and had the money, they could delve into a sordid nest of smuggling, drugs, poached animal pelts, poached ivory, forbidden weaponry, stolen jewels, usury, gambling, prostitution, and all manner of twisted decadence which had thrived during the Fifty Years War and the War of the Lions. With flood, drought, over taxation, and the ever growing numbers of the poor and the dead having nearly ruined legitimate commerce, Dorter's seedy underground had flourished, largely unmolested by the warring dukes who, hopelessly deluded by their designs upon the throne, would spare neither the time nor the manpower to ferret out these hives of scum and villainy. Now that a new king had risen and the battlefields of Ivalice were silent, however, the keepers of this sordid underground, and their patrons, had vanished back into the shadows, lest the new king further his reputation by dragging them into the light and having them hung.

For this reason, the knight blade found that evening in Dorter un-despoiled by the proclivities of the depraved and the depredations of those who catered to such disreputable folk. Indeed, the radiance of the full moon lent the partially rebuilt city an almost ethereal glow, reminding Izlude more than a little of the evenings he'd guided Alma through the inner courtyard of Riovanes Castle.

How long ago that seemed, and yet how near at hand with Lesalia but a few leagues distant.

After wandering downtown Dorter for the better part of an hour, Izlude felt the tension in his body ease and was entertaining thoughts of returning to the inn. But, before he could turn around to retrace his steps, the holy stone suddenly began vibrating in his pocket. Remembering that the last time it had reacted like that had led him to discover that Alma was still alive, Izlude stopped dead in his tracks. His drowsiness and his saddle sores forgotten, his eyes darted in all directions. Could he have stumbled across Alma's trail so soon?

For that matter, could Alma herself be nearby?

He was forced to discard the latter notion quickly, as the battered plaza he presently stood in seemed deserted. Dark storefronts, some closed and others vacant, surrounded him on all sides. Yet, strangely, the stone's gyrations did not abate. After letting his gaze roam for a time, and idly wondering if his overwrought mind might be playing tricks on him, he spied a small art shop which seemed to still be open despite the hour. Perplexed, Izlude took an experimental step towards the shop, and his perplexity only grew as the stone hummed all the more insistently. This, the knight blade was forced to admit, left him bemused. Though he did appreciate art, he did not have even a fraction of his late mother's fascination with what skilled hands could form out of paint, clay, cloth, and marble. Indeed, he likely would not have even noticed the shop if not for the stone. Still, the last several times the stone had been roused like this had guided him closer to his beloved, either by nudging him towards somewhere he needed to go or by aiding him in times of danger.

Deciding to trust the holy stone, and to find out what manner of sign it was giving him, Izlude made his way towards the shop. As if confirming his guess, the stone's vibrations continued to grow in intensity and, by the time he was through the door, he half expected it to tear free of his pocket. As soon as he was inside, he spotted a gray-haired man with a swaying belly, a thick beard, and a bushy mustache, presumably the owner of the shop.

"Greetings, young man! My name is Claudio Chiapparini, and welcome to my store! Please, feel free to look around and let me know if there is anything that catches your fancy."

Izlude smiled "Thank you, sir, I will." Turning his attention back to the shop, the knight blade found himself thinking his mother would've loved this particular establishment. Though the store itself was small, its walls were dotted with a multitude of paintings and tapestries, of various sizes and subjects, while marble statuary was arranged across the floor and shelves held an assortment of vases, urns, and sculptures made from clay, porcelain, and a variety of gleaming metals, precious and otherwise. Some of the pieces on display looked to have been purchased or traded from other artists, while others were likely the handiwork of the store owner himself. Several pieces looked to have been 'rescued', as his mother would have put it. Some likely from the estates of nobles or wealthy merchants, who had abandoned anything they could not carry while fleeing their enemies during the wars. Others were likely discovered amongst the loot of those crime rings which had been crushed during the new king's campaign to restore order.

These pieces showed varying signs of damage and restoration and sported lengths of red ribbon which, according to the sign on the inside of the shop's door, marked them as not being for sale until after they'd been fully restored. Though the establishment was certainly remarkable, Izlude could see no reason for the stone to have led him here. It was obvious that Alma was not here browsing the merchandise, and he couldn't for the life of him see how a painting was going to help him on his journey. For a moment, he found himself wondering if whatever mind or will crested within the blasted rock might be having a bit of fun at his expense. Grumbling under his breath, he'd been about to leave when he spied something out of the corner of his eye that drew him up short.

Hanging from a wall at the end of the second aisle was a painting of a young woman whose face he knew all too well.

Alma Beoulve.

For a long moment, he simply stared in breathless wonderment. His heart tripped, his breathing became ragged, and his vision seemed to blur as if he were trying to take in the overwhelming majesty of the blazing sun, even as his eyes seared at its radiance.

The trance was broken, at least momentarily, when the stone once more vibrated in his pocket. In his mind's eye, Izlude could see a younger, more vivacious Meliadoul, fresh from her victory during his first less-than-auspicious duel with metal swords. And, much like Meliadoul had said back then, the stone's new pattern of gyrations carried an unmistakable flavor of _Told ya so!_

 _That you did..._ Izlude silently conceded, a smile crossing his face as he gently patted the stone. _And, thank you..._

"Excuse me, sir?" Izlude called out to the store owner, forcing his tone from one of incredible relief and overwhelming gratitude to one of simple curiosity and mild interest.

"Yes?" Claudio asked from where he'd been studying a marble statue with a hairline crack over one eye.

"This painting… who is the lady in it?"

As he approached Izlude, Claudio followed his gaze and, upon spying the portrait, let out a merry, if rattling, laugh. "Ahh… that, my boy, is the new Duchess of Lionel, Catherine Seymour."

The knight blade supposed he shouldn't have been surprised, but he could swear that he felt his heart lurch in his chest and tears gather at the corners of his eyes at this news. Since he'd woken from his coma, and realized that his indisposition had ruined his original plan to rescue Alma, the only evidence he'd had that Alma Beoulve was still alive, let alone that she and Catherine Seymour were one and the same, was the Fredericks' description and the stone's seeming corroboration.

But now, literally staring back at him with those same sky-blue eyes that had bewitched him so long ago, was proof.

Alma was alive and well. With the War of the Lions over and the depredations of demonkind overturned, only a few weeks and a few leagues separated them.

"Really?" Izlude gasped, hardly needing to feign his interest in the lovely young woman whose features graced the canvas. "The duchess herself was here?"

Claudio nodded. "Indeed, young man. And, quite a sight she was...though, I suppose you already figured that out."

You'd be surprised, Izlude mused to himself, recalling the halcyon days of his and Alma's mutual seduction.

"It couldn't have been more than a few days ago," Claudio went on, wrenching Izlude's attention back to the present. "She and three of her bodyguards were here, seeking a few touches to liven up their new home in Lionel Castle. I imagine they sorely needed it, too. I visited Lionel Castle some time ago, when I was commissioned to restore a number of faded tapestries. Even back then, the castle was terribly dreary. Not a mote of color to be seen! I swear, that put more strain on my poor, old heart than climbing all those blasted hills...but, I'm straying from the topic at hand, aren't I?"

Too deep in the throes of restrained elation to mind the older man's rambling, Izlude gave a tolerant smile and asked Claudio to continue.

"As I was saying, the duchess came in with three bodyguards. There was a tall lady with braided reddish-blonde hair. I daresay, she was a regal specimen; tall, straight-backed, beautiful, poised, confident, and, if you'll pardon my saying so, shapely! For a minute, I found myself wondering if two duchesses had crossed my doorstep! The other ladies were a pair of younger women with blonde hair. And, if they weren't twins, I'll eat my easel."

That trio of bodyguards, Izlude realized, had to be Agrias Oaks and the Murry twins. And, this latest revelation made him wonder just how many of Ramza's other companions had survived the final confrontation beneath Orbonne.

For that matter, had Ramza himself survived?

Though the duke 'Drake Seymour' certainly seemed likely to be the renegade Beoulve, Izlude did not have proof literally staring back at him. Still, he saw little reason to doubt that a man who could vanquish two Lucavi demons would also prevail against a few more. And had Meliadoul survived as well? He did not know, but a curious warmth emanating from the stone seemed to quell his worry.

"So, they were looking for a painting to decorate the halls of their new home?" Izlude asked, eager for any information that might expedite his reunion with Alma.

"Indeed, young man," Claudio said again. "Duchess Catherine herself was not terribly picky, so she allowed her chief bodyguard to choose a painting. And, I must say, that lady knight is a woman of taste. She chose a painting that I got off another merchant during my travels to Limberry. It was a beautiful piece, showing a phoenix rising from the ashes and soaring towards the heavens! It was painted no more than a few days after the War of the Lions ended, and it did my heart good to see how much love the artist put into it. And, for that matter, how much those four ladies loved it. Ah, they do say beauty brings gladness to a weary heart...but, I'm rambling again, aren't I?"

In ordinary circumstances, Izlude would have neither the good grace nor the patience to deal with elders with a propensity for poetic ramblings.

But, Izlude's present circumstances were anything but ordinary.

Demons had walked the earth and had been beaten back. War had broken out and was quelled. Famine, drought, and poverty had birthed death, misery, and chaos; but these storms had passed over.

And, a knight blade had died, but had risen from the grave; a second chance at life and love laid before his feet.

"Well, getting back to what I was saying earlier," Claudio spoke up once more, "they were quite eager to buy the painting. And, I was quite eager to sell it to them. But, they were a bit short of money. Not surprising, sadly. It's hard for a castle to collect taxes when half the province thinks the castle is haunted and the other half thinks it should be torn down. I hadn't the heart to send such lovely ladies away empty handed, so I offered to halve my asking price in exchange for allowing me the honor of painting the duchess."

"So, you were the one to paint her?" Izlude asked, his burgeoning respect for the man becoming admiration.

"Correct, lad. And, a pleasure it was! She's a very lovely woman, and very kind too. I especially admired her fiery hair. An oddity in Ivalice it may be, but it brought out the color of her lips and cheeks wonderfully."

And, indeed, Izlude had to agree. Though he imagined he'd miss Alma's flaxen tresses, he had to admit that her flowing locks looked no less lovely for the new color. Musing over her hair, however, caused a hint of perplexity to creep into his elation.

Had her hair always been that lush?

For that matter, had it always been that long?

He leaned in for a closer look, thankful that his earlier fascination with the painting had given Claudio no reason to find anything untoward with this scrutiny, and saw that he was right. In addition to its new color, Alma's hair was noticeably thicker. Furthermore, where her locks once brushed her lower ribs, they now looked long enough to touch the small of her back. Her tresses were also styled differently. Rather than simple ponytail, her newly dyed hair had been done up in a trio of braids, two of which cascaded over her slender shoulders to frame her breasts...

...which, he knew from...intimate experience, were smaller than the painting would lead one to believe.

Izlude could feel these oddities beginning to sap at his elation, but he took care to keep any hint of such from his features. Still, having seen the discrepancies between the Alma he remembered and the Alma he now beheld, his curiosity was once more prodding him. After his near misses with Sir Alian, however, he found himself wondering if he'd best tamp down on such urges.

But, then again, he mused, I will need to learn how to glean information from people without making them suspicious. Maybe now's a good time to get in some practice.

"I'm curious," he began, the words of his circumspect question coming awkwardly. "How did she like the painting?"

"Oh, she was delighted!" Claudio answered, beaming. "I've done many a portrait, and not one went as smoothly as hers. Why, some years ago, I was commissioned to paint a portrait of the late Queen Ruvelia. Oh, you might say it was an honor. And, you'd almost be right. She was certainly a beautiful woman, but her expression was always so severe. I couldn't find even one source who could, reliably, tell me what she looked like when she smiled. So, I had to improvise. And, all the while, I was running the risk of having my head cut off if she was displeased, especially since the late King Omdolia wasn't likely to spring to my defense. I swear, I probably sweated enough to break the Limberry drought!"

 _So, I asked a question that wasn't quite a question and got an answer that wasn't really an answer_ , Izlude mused sourly. _Oh, yes. I was made for spycraft!_

Valiantly concealing his frustrations, the knight blade mulled over the oddities he'd witnessed. He was certain that there were distinct differences between the Alma he remembered and the Alma he now beheld, but he wasn't certain if they were of importance.

In fact, he couldn't even be sure if they were real.

It was not uncommon for the portraits of nobles to be embellished; certain unflattering traits removed and more desirable aspects of their appearances accentuated. Claudio had certainly believed Alma to be attractive, but perhaps he had sought to enhance her lovely hair and figure?

That was possible; though, after his time with Alma, Izlude could see no need to tamper with perfection.

"That is quite a story," he opined, a bit of mischief seeping into his tone. "Painting Queen Ruvelia certainly explains all that gray hair."

Claudio feigned indignation for a grand total of three seconds before bursting into laughter.

"Good one, young man!" he said, his rattling laugh punctuating his words. "I suppose I should've expected that from a young man who, no doubt, laughs in the face of danger. Me? Nowadays, I laugh at danger behind its back...when it's about fifty leagues distant."

"Well, age really does bring wisdom," Izlude snickered. "In any case, I would like to buy this portrait. In fact, I might possibly like to meet the duchess herself."

"Well, rumor has it that she and her brother will be in Lesalia next month. But, I warn you, you won't be the only one vying for her hand."

Oh, tell me about it, Izlude mused, though he held his tongue. "I see. In any case, I would like this portrait; how much do you want for it?"

"Well, since you seem quite fixated on her, I can let it go for two hundred gil. Fair enough?"

Izlude smiled so broadly, he half expected his face to split open. "Deal."

* * *

After bidding farewell to Claudio, and finding himself thinking he might one day seek one or two gifts for 'Catherine' in the kindly old man's establishment, the knight blade left the art shop and headed back to the inn, the portrait tucked securely in a sturdy leather case which Claudio had provided. Izlude's more rational side told him that he should not be spending what little money he still had on trifles like paintings, especially when he had not yet found a job and needed to scrape together whatever funds he could for his room and the provisions he had yet to shop for. However, that part of Izlude had been heeded little since he'd made the seemingly mad decision of falling in love with the woman who, at the time, was supposed to be his captive. The rest of him, which was overjoyed at this latest proof that Alma was alive and well, considered the portrait to have been worth every gil he'd spent.

His stomach might resent this neglect, but, as Claudio had so eloquently put it, beauty brings gladness to a weary heart.

Besides, if he'd crossed the barrier between life and death for Alma, then missing a few meals in exchange for bringing their reunion closer to hand was a pittance by comparison. However, the night was getting on, so Izlude decided that shopping for provisions could wait until morning. Upon returning to his room and safely tucking Alma's portrait away, the knight blade headed for the inn's tavern. Even at this hour, the establishment had quite a few night owls eager for food and drink. Other patrons were conversing in vivacious, booming tones or engaged in such diversions as darts, dice, and letting their hands wander. Rolling his eyes at these shenanigans, and idly wondering if scoring a few bull's-eyes might give him an opening to ask about possible jobs, he settled onto a bar stool and let his gaze roam the crowd. Before he could glean anything more probative than the fact that beer and darts don't mix, Izlude noticed a young man enter the tavern. He was wiry fellow, dressed in the rough garb of a workman. However, he was also well spoken, with a clipped and educated Lesalian accent. He held a small stack of handbills in one hand which featured a curious insignia Izlude had never seen before. It looked to a pair of burly hands, clasped as if in a gesture of friendship, with the image framed at the corners by small symbols depicting an anvil being struck by a smithing hammer and a boulder being struck by a pick axe. The young man pulled one handbill free, waving in the air like a banner carrier on the field of battle.

"Attention, everyone!" the young man announced. "I am Gilliam Ro, a representative from the Ivalician Mining and Metalworking Consortium, based in Gollund. We are looking for strong men to work the mines, foundries, and smithies. Apprenticeships are available, and workers can earn two, even three hundred gil a day!"

Izlude had never heard of such an organization; but, by the look of things, the tavern patrons had. Before Gilliam had even finished his introduction, every eye in the tavern had snapped in his direction. And, by the time he'd finished his announcement, the tavern patrons looked fit to burst with excitement. They rose in a body and swarmed Gilliam who, apparently used to this kind of enthusiasm, smiled broadly and began passing out the handbills as fast as he could. Izlude watched the flurry of activity, his eyebrows shooting right up into his hairline at the wiry man's claims. On the surface, the offer sounded a bit too generous, especially to someone who vividly remembered the Ivalice of the wars. In those all too recent days, a worker could count him or herself lucky to earn two or three hundred gil in a month, let alone a day. And, Izlude remembered only too well the last time he'd been beguiled into embracing what he should've suspected was too good to be true.

After all, when he'd followed the Church of Glabados's plan to create a utopia in Ivalice, he'd found himself unknowingly in the service of a disguised demon and, later, found himself impaled upon the demon's leonine claws.

And yet, though he found the offer's validity questionable, he could not help the curiosity which threatened to overwhelm his skepticism. The offer did sound too good to be true, but what if it was genuine? If so, earning such wages would greatly expedite his plans to reunite with Alma. And, with all these people signing on, he suspected he'd be able to get in quite a bit of practice perfecting his persona as Damien Mitchell.

What's more, the Fredericks did mention that some of the loot from the sundered crime rings was believed to be hidden in Gollund's mines.

Suppose, while working in those dark shafts, he discovered such a trove which he could use to finance his bid for Alma's hand?

What do you think? he silently asked the stone, wondering if it might hear his thoughts and react.

Rather than hum or vibrate, the stone remained quiet. Izlude's brow furrowed, wondering if this might mean that whatever force guided the stone had no opinion on the matter, had too little information to render judgment, or was silently resentful of being treated like a fortune teller's crystal ball. After waiting for a few moments, and deciding the stone would make itself known only when it chose to, Izlude decided to make his way through the crowd to ask Gilliam for a handbill. Seeing how strong and robust Izlude was, the mining company representative was only too happy to oblige.

"You'll have to forgive my ignorance," Izlude spoke up, "but, I've never worked for your organization before. Please, tell me about this job. And, when do I start?"

Though Izlude wasn't laying any coin on his chances, he was hoping that he could get more information out of the mining company representative. The smug grin he wore and the aplomb with which he handled his duties suggested that Gilliam's position was the result of a recent and eagerly sought after promotion and that he very much enjoyed being the face of his organization. Perhaps being addressed in a deferential tone might loosen Gilliam's lips and, consequently, give Izlude some insight into whether or not this remarkably generous offer was genuine.

"The details will be given when you get there," Gilliam answered smoothly, apparently used to this sort of treatment as well. "Don't worry, though. I'm sure you'll do fine. However, the project starts in a few days, and we can only take so many applicants. If you're serious about signing on, then I suggest you leave here and head to Gollund as soon as possible."

"Will do. Thank you, sir," Izlude said as he accepted the handbill.

As he waded through the crowd of patrons still eager for handbills of their own, Izlude grumbled a bit at his, thus far, laughable progress in the realm of spycraft. Another flipside of being a knight's son was that lies, subterfuge, and surreptitiousness were concepts which, at best, were foreign and which, at worst, were abhorrent. Now, with the Knights Templar corrupted and crushed, and with his former life and former name now lost to him, he'd been forced to make his journey to Alma's side with only his wits and his luck...

...at this point, he was fairly certain that the fact that he was still breathing could only be attributed to the latter. And, to the stone.

Still, from what little he'd seen, it appeared that the world he'd discovered upon waking from his coma was far better than the one he'd involuntarily left behind when he'd been devoured by the flood waters at Besselat.

With each day, there seemed to be more changes he'd have to adjust to, more to learn so that he might avoid attracting unwelcomed attention, and more to do before he finally held Alma in his arms again.

That was a great burden to shoulder. But, like the Ivalicians he'd seen and spoken to, many of whom shouldered burdens no less daunting than his own, he did not despair. If his fumbling allowed him to reach Alma, he'd feel no less overjoyed for the inauspicious moments that marked his journey. So resolved, he continued weaving through the press of bodies until he eventually worked free and seated himself at a table where he could study the handbill at greater length. Before he could begin reading, however, he was nearly jolted out of his seat by the rapport of tankards banging against the table. Glancing around, he saw that, in his preoccupation with Alma, he'd failed to notice that a group of people had also decided to seat themselves at this particular table.

These were a rough-and-tumble group, comprised of some twenty men and women, all with the well-defined muscles and tanned flesh of folk well accustomed to hard labor. They spoke in boisterous, excited tones and, Izlude noticed, they were passing one of Gilliam's handbills back and forth between them.

Once more, Izlude found his curiosity bubbling to the surface. Perhaps these people had worked for this Ivalician Mining and Metalworking Consortium before, and they could tell him more about it.

"Excuse me," he spoke up to the man seated next to him, a burly, grizzled man of middle years with a broad chest and sun bleached hair who'd just finished offering a toast to the assembled laborers. "I see you're also interested in working for the Ivalician Mining and Metalworking Consortium."

"Why, that we are, young man!" the grizzled replied in a jolly Zeltennian voice, accentuating his enthusiasm by clapping Izlude on the back hard enough to leave the knight blade gasping. "Though, if you're after the same job, you'll need to be a bit sturdier than that. Still, you're young yet. I'm Georg Diepel. Who are you?"

"Damien Mitchell," Izlude replied, glad that his alias came to his lips more easily this time.

"I've been in the sticks helping resettle displaced villagers, and it looks like things have been moving fast while I've been away. Is there anything you can tell me about the Ivalician Mining and Metalworking Consortium? The only thing I really know about them is that they make tempting offers."

"Ah, worried you'll find the grass isn't so green in their pastures? Well, it's good you young people are looking before you leap. Anyhow, I was skeptical too, but my crew and I voted to give it a try during their last project, which was about a month ago. And, we made out like bandits! We got more gil from that one project than we did in our last three jobs combined."

"That does sound tempting. But, could you tell me more about the Consortium? And, what did you mean by your 'crew'?"

"Well, that's thirsty work, young man. And, between that and making a new friend, I say this is an occasion that deserves a drink."

"Father, since when have you ever needed an occasion to drink?" a young woman seated across from Georg asked with a snicker.

"You'd best be respecting your elders, Gerde," Georg said in what would've been a scolding tone if not for the rumbles of laughter that punctuated his words. "Don't think just because you served in the Nanten that I can't still take you over my knee."

"The last time you tried that, I flipped you on your back and tied your belt around your ankles."

Georg snorted, turned pointedly to Izlude, and grumbled something unflattering about 'young people'.

His eyes darting warily between the bombastic father and his suddenly fearsome looking daughter, Izlude could only politely reiterate his earlier question. Georg, who apparently didn't need much encouragement when new-found friends and beer were involved, ordered a round for the table and relayed his tale, insisting that Izlude partake of the liquor all the while.

The beer was strong and bit his throat, but being a knight was not possible without a robust constitution. Trusting in his tolerance, he obliged the Zeltennian and urged him to continue.

Apparently, in an effort to revive Ivalice's economy as quickly as possible, Delita had introduced, ostensibly as an emergency measure, a number of hitherto unheard-of changes to the laws governing trade and commerce in Ivalice. Under the feudal system which had governed Ivalice in the past, those with goods to sell, and who weren't nobles themselves, needed permits to sell their wares while in the lands of this noble or that, as well as to rent land from the nobles to set up their shops and to gather raw materials needed to craft their wares. Those merchants, farmers, miners, and craftsman who were in the bad graces of the noble in question often found the fees for permits and the rents on land to be agonizingly high, and that was assuming they weren't refused outright. These same fees and rents could also be used to untowardly influence just what could be sold and to whom, usually with some petty slight or feud being the driving force behind such coercion. In addition, the prospect of moving goods from one province to another, which was no small matter in and of itself, was made all the more stinging by a system of tariffs which dated back to the time when Ivalice's seven provinces had been separate kingdoms in their own right.

With legitimate commerce so stifled, it was no wonder that the seedy underbelly of places like Dorter had flourished over the last half century.

In fact, it was the nobles' obsession with controlling where and to whom every last copper went which had sown the seeds of the High Confessor's machinations.

Seeing that this arrangement would only exacerbate the aftereffects of the wars, Delita had called for these laws to be suspended and new ones drafted for use during the emergency. The tariffs had been lifted, thus allowing goods to move more freely throughout the realm, and merchants of every walk of life were now given a freer hand in terms of how they could go about their business. They could, for instance, negotiate to use the land in exchange for a fixed percentage of their income, thus preventing a landowner with a grudge from charging them rents which were beyond their means. Alternatively, they could now buy the land outright, thus eliminating the need to pay rents, and could then use, rent out, or resell the land again at their discretion. With the ability to devote greater resources to improving the quality, quantity, and distribution of their merchandise, consortiums such as the one Izlude was now learning about had cropped up. These were independent organizations of laborers, craftsmen, porters, and merchants which had, in recent weeks, steadily been given more and more leeway to conduct their various enterprises on their own terms. Thus, each Consortium was competing to outdo its contemporaries by delivering greater quantities of better merchandise at greater speeds and for lower prices.

Georg hadn't said that, as far as he knew, this had never been done before. But, then again, he hadn't needed to.

Izlude had to admit, he was impressed. After a number of anecdotes from Georg, which the Zeltennian had managed to squeeze in between tankards of beer, it seemed as though Delita's plan was working. Not only was the demand for labor offering a way out of poverty for countless Ivalicians, but those same people who had faced starvation when markets like Dorter's stood empty now had menageries of goods offered by various sources, all capable of offering needed goods at a fraction of their once exorbitant cost.

There had, of course, been some skepticism regarding these sweeping changes. Most of these came from those nobles who were of the opinion that commoners could not be trusted to give an honest answer to any question without a generous application of the thumb screws. Interestingly, however, other nobles were latching onto the idea, since many of these had been bankrupted as a consequence of the war and saw these changes as a lifeline they could use to pull themselves free of destitution. Most Ivalicians, however, were quietly hoping that these 'emergency measures' would become permanent in later years.

The new king of Ivalice had already rallied his kingdom's disparate fighting men and women to his new banner, forming an order of knights who regarded him with deep respect and total devotion.

And now, he had turned long-standing laws of commerce on their head, sowing unorthodox seeds which, to everyone's amazement, were yielding a bountiful crop of prosperity for all.

Again and again, Delita had shown his cunning by winning himself great friends and dividing and sowing confusion amongst his enemies, all with a few bold strokes.

Izlude would've been impressed if it hadn't been for the fact that this same cunning had allowed Delita to win the trust of would-be allies, only to stab them in the back once their usefulness to him had ended.

What might the newly crowned king do with all this burgeoning power?

For that matter, what might all this burgeoning power do to him?

Deciding that the state of Delita's moral compass was beyond his control, Izlude listened as Georg went on to describe his crew, which he'd garishly dubbed the 'Boulder Devils'. Apart from himself and his daughter, there were a number of people with them, several from each province. Like so many other Ivalicians, they'd lost their homes and livelihoods during the war and were swept up in the flood of desperation which deposited hungry refugees in Lesalia like so much flotsam. Yet, whereas many of these destitute folk turned to panhandling, prostitution, or banditry, these people had kept straight backs and banded together to survive. Once the war had ended, and their various talents were actively sought after, the Boulder Devils had taken advantage of the roads between provinces reopening to seek out where the best jobs could be found in the emerging free market. Until they found a place they could set down roots - and, more to the point, find work they'd happily labor at until old age - they journeyed together in chocobo drawn wagons, moving from place to place and job to job, accruing a reputation all the while which, hopefully, would one day secure better lives for themselves and their children.

Izlude had to admit, he found their tale rather heartwarming...or, maybe that was the beer. He had, at Georg's insistence, downed several tankards as he heard the tale.

Ultimately, Georg had decided he'd done enough talking and, unsurprisingly, that called for a drink. At this point, the slightly inebriated Izlude felt the stone vibrate in his pocket. Woozy though he was, the knight blade could glean that this must mean the stone had weighed Georg's words and had given its approval. Truth be told, however, Izlude had already been leaning in that direction. Thus resolved, he'd been about to leave the table when - again, at Georg's insistence - he kept his seat and made idle chatter with the group for a while longer. Though he was getting tired, and he was quite certain he'd imbibed well past his limits, he obliged. Why he did so, he could not say. But, as he listened to the Boulder Devils recount their exploits, heard anecdotes about Gerde's time with the Nanten, and offered some carefully crafted tales of his own about his time in Kohlingen, he found himself warming to this eclectic group. Perhaps he was still in a celebratory mood from the good fortune he'd had in discovering the portrait and this promising job, or maybe he'd enjoyed a respite from the solitude that had characterized much of his journey so far.

Of course, it could just as easily have been him imbibing eight tankards of beer...before he'd lost count, that is.

Whatever the reason, he found himself thinking that, if he did indeed need to build a new life from his porous persona as Damien Mitchell, maybe he could find some new friends as well. The Fredericks, Sir Alian, Claudio, and the Boulder Devils had each given him a taste of companionship which he'd sorely missed since his earlier 'death' had forced him to sever all ties with his former friends in the Knights Templar.

Perhaps, once he was reunited with Alma, he could put down some roots of his own, just as these people sought to do after the loss of their former homes had forced them on their own strange journey.

Perhaps hiding behind the name and face of Damien Mitchell would not be so bleak a prospect if there were other uprooted souls in whom he might find fellowship.

He had to admit, the notion appealed to him.

As Georg led his crew in a tavern ballad, the knight blade considered what he'd learned. The stone vibrating in his pocket certainly suggested that acting upon this unexpected opportunity might allow him to make enough money to cover his expenses for his trip to Lesalia, as well as enough to vie for the hand of the Duchess of Lionel. Although the pay was quite appealing, Izlude also knew that mining was very hard work, even more so than farming. Still, he remembered how, before his soul was evicted by Hashmalum, his father used to say that one never gets something for nothing. Izlude hadn't become the Knights Templar's second-in-command through sloth or ineptitude, but through the same drive, discipline, and quick wittiness with which he sought to build a new future for himself and his beloved. His being Vormav's son had no bearing on his meteoric rise in the ranks of the Knights Templar, and his father would have never given Izlude his position if he had not truly earned it. The same was true of Meliadoul. If he was brave enough to take on a Lucavi demon alone, against hopeless odds, just so his beloved would have a few minutes to escape, then Izlude would have no complaints about toiling in the mines of Gollund for a few days, or even weeks.

Georg called for another tavern ballad; one that, apparently, wove the exploits of the Boulder Devils into song. He also, unsurprisingly, called for more beer.

And, once more at George's insistence, Izlude found himself juggling the strangely complex tasks of draining his tankard and lending his slurred, warbling voice to the song.

Even as he approached the tipping point of being too drunk to keep his seat, he was certain he'd never heard such atrocious lyrics.

* * *

Izlude had learned a great deal from his talk with Georg.

One of these things, unfortunately, had been that the knight blade's estimation of his tolerance for alcohol was somewhat exaggerated.

Still, despite a wobble in his gait and a slur in his speech, he was still coherent enough to make his way back to his room with the handbill from the Ivalician Mining and Metalworking Consortium still in hand.

If Georg's glowing appraisal of the Consortium hadn't been enough to convince Izlude, then the stone vibrating in affirmation certainly had.

The next step in his journey apparently revealed, Izlude decided to return to his room before his new-found friends could inebriate him even further. The knight blade would need a good night's sleep and, with all he'd drunk, he'd be exceedingly lucky if he could manage even that, let alone get an early start the next morning. Fortunately, drinking his dinner did have one helpful dividend; his stomach, which had been complaining since he'd left Claudio's shop, no longer rumbled.

More than likely, it was quite busy ensuring what little food he had eaten didn't manage a violent reemergence.

A cool bath helped to ease the aftereffects of matching drinks with the Zeltennian, though Izlude was positive he'd regret availing himself of Georg's generosity come dawn. Once he'd dried off and changed into his night clothes, Izlude decided to take out the portrait of Alma. Slipping it free of its leather case, he settled onto the bed and gazed at it adoringly, admiring how the soft light of the room's lamp cast enticing shadows across the Beoulve girl's features. As Izlude had suspected, Claudio was indeed a talented artist, for he had captured the Beoulve girl's image in exquisite detail. His beer addled mind churned with longing as he beheld her large, luminous blue eyes, her Cupid 's bow lips, her delicate nose, and everything else he remembered of the beautiful young woman who'd captured his heart. However, as he had noticed earlier, there were certain disparities between the girl he remembered and the girl that was staring back at him now. Apart from her red hair, which he already knew of from Doug and Helen, he saw that her tresses were, indeed, longer and lusher than he remembered. Her pale cheeks were also redder, which seemed at odds with her smile...

...or, at least, it would have been if the painting had been depicting her real smile.

During her aborted plan to seduce and kill the captor who would, rather spectacularly, disrupt her plans by falling in love with her, she'd given him a smile just like the one he saw in the portrait. Once she had returned his affections, however, the smile, the genuine smile she'd given him, had been crooked. Yet another oddity was that, when he gave her figure a closer examination, he saw that her breasts were slightly larger, her hips a mite wider, and cheeks a bit fuller.

The knight blade rested the portrait against one of the bedposts, studying it curiously. He had hoped that his surreptitious questioning of Claudio might shed some light on this matter, but he'd come away empty-handed. Still, some possible explanations did occur to him. Claudio had mentioned that 'Duchess Seymour' had been short of coin, likely due to the people of Lionel province being reluctant to pay taxes to a castle they believed was haunted. It was possible that the old artist might've found it distressing for a lovely lady of breeding to be so impoverished. Perhaps, by giving her lusher hair and putting some meat on her bones, he was embellishing her appearance to make her look as he believed she ought to look, or how he suspected she would look once her new-found home was in good order.

That seemed possible, especially since a stranger would find her askew smile quite strange on canvas.

Or, perhaps, these changes had been quite real, but they'd also been Alma's own handiwork.

Izlude was not the only one who had to leave his former name beneath a gravestone, but he had the holy stone to alter his appearance and voice so that none who meant him harm would recognize him. Alma, he imagined, had had to make do with more mundane means of hiding her identity. But, perhaps, she'd made good use of them? Apart from the hair dye, he'd once heard Meliadoul mention certain oils she'd used which, when rubbed into the scalp, caused a woman's hair to grow longer and thicker. By that same token, Alma could have used some makeup to alter her complexion, lending her pale skin a rosier hue. And, to round out her new disguise, literally as well as figuratively, a few extra portions of dessert would give her a fuller figure. Taken together, these would make it quite difficult for Alma to be recognized by her former acquaintances. And, hopefully, any of her pursuers who yet remained would also be fooled.

That too was possible, especially since Alma's efforts to win her freedom from Riovanes showed she had a sharper mind and steadier nerves than her demure appearance would suggest.

After pondering the thought for a while longer, the knight blade shook his head. In the end, it hardly mattered whether the appearance of his love had been altered by the painter's brush or by her own hand. She was still beautiful to his eyes, and the knowledge that she was alive and living in safety and comfort within the walls of Lionel Castle with her brother and friends was more than enough to ease his spirits and firm his resolve. And, if the face staring back at him was truly that of his love, then what did it matter?

If her hair was now red, then so be it. This new color looked truly radiant on her.

If her tresses were longer and lusher, then so be it. He'd have that much more woven silk to tangle his fingers in when he swooped in for a kiss.

If her cheeks were rosier, then so be it. They looked all the more enticing to his hungry lips.

If she was plumper than he remembered, then so be it. Perhaps, if she ever took it into her head to play hard to get, as she sometimes did after they'd confessed their love at Riovanes, then a few extra pounds would make her easier to catch.

It would be worth anything to see her again, her smile properly askew as he held her in his arms once more.

Hoping this resolve would extend to him rising early and arriving in Gollund in time for the job, he carefully stored away Alma's portrait and the handbill he'd gotten from Gilliam and fell into a deep, heavy sleep…

* * *

_Darkness._

_All about Izlude was darkness. An ebony expanse of gloom, which spanned the horizon and shot off into infinity, was all that greeted the knight blade's still addled senses..._

_...that and the migraine that had his skull pounding like a gong._

_Izlude could swear that a certain young Beoulve and a certain holy knight were presently dancing atop his skull...in full armor. Even in his drunken state, some scintilla of rational thinking informed him that such an image was well and truly absurd, though this did nothing to alleviate the roll of thunder booming between his ears._

_As he worked to massage away the invisible pins that rhythmically prodded at his eyeballs, Izlude suddenly noticed the gloom around him…and remembered what sinister images he'd beheld the last time he'd found himself in such a place._

_Alma, tainted by the_ Lucavi, _and condemned to an insatiable hunger for innocent blood._

_Ramza, a champion of Ivalice, spitting her upon his blade rather than leave her to her enthrallment._

_Though he knew that nightmare had not come to pass, his_ drink addled _mind was nonetheless jolted to life by these remembered horrors. Fearing what this darkness might birth next, he straightened and, once more, groped for a sword which was absent from his hip._

_But, all this was promptly forgotten when an all too familiar voice rang out of the infinite night._

_"My lord…"_

_Izlude, his pounding_ skull _and thudding heart suddenly falling silent, stood stock still for a long moment, his alarm draining away as astonishment and trepidation flooded in to replace it. Slowly, very slowly, he turned towards the sound of the voice and found himself face to face with someone he knew all too well._

_It was a young man with red hair, blue eyes, and a smattering of freckles across his cheeks and nose. Like many who had fought at his side and died under his command during his time as his father's right hand amongst the Knights Templar, he wore a suit of magnificent armor that gleamed golden, even in the blackness, over which was draped an exquisite tabard of crimson silk. Many such men and women had drawn swords with him, and he'd consigned more than a few to their final rest after they'd given their lives in service to their church, but this one occupied a special place in the knight blade's heart._

_This man had been like the brother he never had...but had lost nonetheless._

_For a fatal lapse in judgment had cost this man the life that Izlude himself had, through_ means _he might never understand, been given back._

_"Justin? Is that you?" he gasped, barely able to get the words past the lump in his throat._

_"Yes, it is I, Sir Izlude," the late Templar answered._

_The apparition, illusion, or whatever he beheld spoke with the voice of his old friend, but not quite. In life, Sir Justin's words had forced their way past his lips in fits and starts while his sentences had been known to double back upon themselves when negotiating certain phrases. Now, however, his voice possessed a sharpness and clarity that sent Izlude's eyes pulsing wide._

_"You... you're not stuttering!" the knight blade blurted in amazement, nearly stuttering himself in his astonishment._

_"Of course not," Justin replied, seeming almost amused by his former superior's reaction. "Have you forgotten? I no longer dwell the realm of the living, and therefore the limitations of my mortal body no longer binds me."_

_Another quirk, which could only be attributed to his late comrade being well past the fear of being demoted for insolence, manifested itself as Justin's mouth broadened in a mischievous smile._

_"If you'd finished off that keg, you might very well find yourself similarly unencumbered," he pointed out._

_This barb had likely been meant as a joke, but Izlude nonetheless could not find it in him to laugh…_

_…indeed, he suddenly found himself unable to meet Justin's bright gaze._

_The weight of memory, held in abeyance by days spent planning his journey to Alma's side, now pressed upon him just as surely as boot heel against his throat. He recalled how, while making his exit from the tomb that was Riovanes Castle, he'd lingered before Justin's ravaged corpse. At that time, even he had not been certain why he'd lingered. Perhaps he'd wanted to explain, to apologize, or to thank his friend for his loyalty; but now, faced with Justin's specter in whatever realm he'd found himself in, words failed him…_

_…just as he had failed his friend._

_Seeing the wraith-like form of his friend had served as a painful reminder of whose fault it was that Justin's time amongst the living had been cut so tragically short. The knight blade's gaze drifted towards the bottomless abyss below, guilt bowing his head and leaving him too ashamed to meet the gaze of his loyal subordinate and dear friend, just as had been the case with the aggrieved, dispossessed spirit of his father. In a voice hoarse with emotion, Izlude_ asked _"Do you hate me, Justin?"_

 _"Of course not, my lord," Justin answered, his tone suggesting that, if it were possible for a ghost to feel_ shock _, he did so. "Why would you think that?"_

_Rather than easing the burden of his guilty conscience, Justin's denial seemed to inflame it. "How could you not? It was because of me that you died. You might have been able to escape Hashmalum if I hadn't ordered you to protect Alma and guard her escape."_

_"My lord… Izlude… whether you ordered me to guard Lady Alma or not would've made no difference. She was…very dear to me, as are you."_

_Though Justin no longer retained the speech impediment which had made him a figure of fun in the eyes of some, even death could not wipe away the boyish timidity which Justin had shown when a conversation had wended its way into sensitive territory. Comprehension dawning, the knight blade's head snapped up and he stared at his best friend in shock. And, when Justin's eyes darted away from his own, Izlude's next words came out haltingly. "You… you were in love with her too, weren't you?"_

_Justin did not answer, but the look in the other knight's eyes told Izlude everything he needed to know._

_"I would have protected her with all my strength, and given my life for hers in a heartbeat," Justin affirmed, the conviction and regret in his words lending weight to Izlude's assertion. "Even if you had not ordered me to defend her, I would've done so anyway. If anything, I should beg your forgiveness. You trusted me to protect Lady Alma, as did she, and I have failed both of you."_

_In the late Templar's words, Izlude heard an echo of the grief he'd heard from his father when he'd faced the dispossessed spirit of the man he'd remembered from his boyhood. He remembered the regret and the self-recrimination in the nearly broken voice of the man whose very soul had been evicted from his body, and this recollection set his ghostly nerves afire._

_"No!" he intoned, forcefully enough to startle the specter before him. In a calmer voice, Izlude continued. "You owe me no apology, Justin. If anything, you deserve Alma much more than I do…"_

_A figure of fun Justin might have been to some, but those who could see past the fits and starts of his speech knew him to be a brave and honorable man. Indeed, such was what had drawn Izlude to him in the first place and why, at some risk to his own standing, he had argued for Justin to included amongst the ranks of the Templar._

_Would the strange events of the past few months have unfolded differently if it had been Justin who captured the heart of their lovely captive instead of Izlude?_

_The knight blade had no idea. In truth, the only thing he was certain of was that Justin would not have taken Alma's maidenhood before giving her a proper wedding bed._

_As if sensing this train of thought, the other knight laughed softly. "Do not be so certain, my lord," he cautioned. "Even men of the gods are still men. The spirit may be willing when the flesh is weak, as we've heard often enough at mass. But, I don't blame you for...showing weakness before Alma. She's the sort of woman a man might pine after for a thousand years. And, I think we're both past being concerned with what the Knights Templar would make of such an act."_

_"Maybe," Izlude conceded, recalling the sick irony that his 'death' was all that spared him from being cast out of the order in disgrace. "But, that does not excuse what I did."_

_"No? Then, perhaps this will. Never forget, what you did for Alma, even those acts you call into question, had been done out of love. The Lucavi that killed us_ are _incapable of love. The demon who wore your father's face could not even imitate it. Yes, you took her maidenhood before taking her hand in marriage. But, what else did you do as well? You offered her companionship and affection in what, otherwise, would have been a long, waking nightmare. Then, when you heard her out regarding the church's machinations and realized she was telling the truth, you became an ally, someone she could confide in and rely on, even with all the dreadful events that were unfolding so near at hand. And, ultimately, you gave your life so that she might live."_

_Here, Justin paused long enough to approach Izlude and lay a strangely substantial hand on the knight blade's shoulder._

_"What you took from her, she gave freely. And, after what you gave her in turn, I doubt Alma would regret a minute of it."_

_Izlude had to admit, unencumbered by his stutter, Justin could say a great deal with only a few words._

_"Even so, I'd say you've proved yourself the better man between us," he affirmed, though the self-recrimination was gone from his voice._

_"Lady Alma herself would disagree," Justin replied. "She has chosen you, and only you. I've always known that, and I accepted it. "_

_"And, that's why you never told her how you felt…"_

_"Yes. But, that no longer matters…"_

_"Regardless, you and so many other knights have died because of me, because of my ignorance of the Lucavi. It was one thing to give my own life, but yours wasn't mine to give, nor were theirs."_

_"Have you forgotten what I already said, my lord? Even if you hadn't asked me to protect Lady Alma, I would have done so anyway."_

_"Maybe, but I still wish it hadn't come to this. When I 'died', all I could think about was the signs I'd seen but didn't recognize. I should have known that father was not the same man after he'd received that blasted stone. I should have acted upon Alma's words sooner. I just...I just have so many regrets, about how I'd failed you and the others, and I wish there was something, anything, I could do to set things to rights. Not just for you, but all of who shouldn't have died that day."_

_"There is, Izlude. The land that we loved and died for still needs men of courage. The fires of war may have guttered out, but Ivalice's future is still far from secure. Protect and serve this land, and her people, so that people like Larg, Goltana, Ruvelia, and Marcel will not rise again and run her to ruin. And, no less important, live your own life to the fullest. This second chance at life that you've been given? Countless souls have pined for it as they realized, too late, that they'd left so much undone and that time favors no one. Don't agonize over who should've gotten that second chance. Instead, put it use. For Ivalice, for yourself, and for Lady Alma…"_

_For a stretching second, Izlude could only stare back at Justin in mute awe. Was this the man who, if not for his malformed speech, Izlude would have known in life? The knight blade could not say. What he could say was that the late Templar's wispy eyes held no hint of reproach nor anger, not even much envy that Alma had chosen Izlude instead of him._

_All he saw on Justin's face was the same friendship and respect he recalled when they'd both walked the land of the living._

_Though Izlude's mind could not gather it in all at once, the realization that Justin begrudged him nothing had struck him profoundly. However, once he allowed that realization to sink it, and he turned it over in his mind, he found the pain which had lingered in his heart at Justin's death had eased._

_It was still there, and perhaps it would linger until the day he died for the second and last time, but hearing his friend's kind words had caused the great weight to lift from his heart. In its place was fond memories of the time he'd had with his best friend, and the final promise he must now make, and keep, in honor of his friend's memory._

_So resolved, the knight blade smiled as he took Justin in an embrace._

_"I will, my friend," Izlude avowed, wiping away misty tears from his ethereal cheeks. "This I promise you."_

_"Thank you," Justin replied, sounding as though he'd reached some peace himself. "However, I must go now. I can rest easy knowing everything is in good hands. Goodbye, Izlude, my friend. Live well… and be happy…_

_"I will…goodbye, Justin…_

 

* * *

"Oooohhhh!"

As has been said, Izlude learned a great deal from his talk with Georg.

"Oooooooohhhhhhhh!"

Unfortunately, at the top of that list was that one should never, ever try to match drinks with a Zeltennian miner.

"Oooooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

Izlude, who was mightily chastened regarding any and all presumptions regarding his tolerance for alcohol, writhed under the onslaught of what felt like the entirety of Ramza's engaged in a folk dance atop his already throbbing head...or, was that what his dream last night had degenerated into after he'd had exchanged his farewells with Justin?

Before his slightly addled wits could decide, his lurching attempt to leave his bed went somewhat awry and ended with him crunching his nose into the floorboards. Jolted from his stupor by the barest degree, Izlude rolled onto his back and spent the next few minutes trying to make sense of the image of the ceiling as it seemed to surge towards him and then draw back.

"Stay up, ceiling," he croaked, suddenly feeling as parched as the Zeklaus Desert. "Good ceiling."

Some part of Izlude, likely the rational part he'd been neglecting since that fateful exchange between him and Alma in the dungeons of Riovanes Castle, was presently railing at him over his decision to drink the night away with the Boulder Devils. And, Izlude almost agreed.

Almost.

Granted, he'd had little experience with the people his former order and former church professed to aid, and very well might have in the years before his father's soul was evicted by Hashmalum, but he'd found his experiences with Georg, Gerde, and the Boulder Devils to be one that he'd not soon forget. Despite their rough manner and hard drinking, he could tell they were honest folk and a tight-knit group, any one of which would gladly hazard him or herself for the benefit of one of their fellows. No less apparent was their grit, by which they had not only survived events which had left many dead or broken, but which had only made them stronger and had allowed them to live long enough to see a world where they might thrive.

They'd kept him up well past he'd intended with their advice about the Consortium and how to do well in their employ, which was useful. They'd kept him for a time after that spinning yarns and drawing from him what anecdotes he could manage under the combined burdens of secrecy and intoxication, and both the practice and the beer had helped him to speak as Damien Mitchell with a steadier nerve.

And, they'd kept him a bit longer than that with their singing...which was a mild form of torture.

Our tools are sharp, our laces, tight, we dance beyond the firelight, Izlude repeated in his head with scathing silent sarcasm as he dragged himself upright. If I hear that damned refrain one more time, someone will die!

Before he'd even finished the thought, his already unsteady legs twisted beneath him and sent him sprawling again. At the same time, his stomach, already roiling after having half a keg of beer in place of dinner, went into the sorts of convulsions which threatened a full-blown mutiny.

Probably me, Izlude mentally added as he clawed his way to the chamber pot and retched piteously.

Once there was nothing left to heave, the less-than-cognizant knight blade made a less-than-dignified effort to stand and managed a less-than-steady stride while he willed his eyes to focus. Judging by the strength of the sun, he hadn't slept in quite a late as he'd feared, but he suspected it would be ill-advised of him to press his luck. After dunking his head in the room's wash basin several times, he'd managed to clear his head, and his mouth, enough that he felt he could manage the journey.

He still felt like he'd been trampled by Nelly, twice, and that he'd keel over and die unless he got a mug of water in the next five minutes, but his thoughts wended away from his beer induced agony the moment he lurched over to the holy stone's hiding place.

_Was that dream your handiwork? he silently asked the stone, wondering if it could hear and, if so, if and how it might give an answer. If so, could you do something about this hangover while you're at it?_

The stone gave off a cool, almost admonishing pulse in reply, prompting Izlude to shrug and chalk his present discomfiture up to a learning experience.

Still, the question persisted.

Was his vision of his best friend merely a trick of his overwrought mind, or had the holy stone somehow allowed him to speak with the spirit of the late Sir Justin Timbel through his dreams? Either was certainly possible, and the stone had already proven that whatever powers it possessed reached beyond the realm of the living. After all, the proof was staring Izlude in the face every time he looked in the mirror and saw the face of a hale and hearty man staring back. Regardless, being able to speak with Justin, to come to grips with the guilt he'd felt over his loyal comrade's death and give him a proper farewell, did much to ease the guilt which had gnawed at him since his resurrection.

His own abortive journey beyond the grave notwithstanding, Izlude could not say where Justin's brave soul now resided. But, wherever that might be, he hoped his friend was happy.

Then, he remembered that he'd made a promise to his dearly departed friend and, on the heels of that recollection, came the memory of what Gilliam told him the night before. If this Consortium was as sought after a billet as last night suggested, he had best make haste to Gollund if he wanted that job working the mines. After packing his things, the knight blade checked out of the inn and made his way to the stables to pick up his faithful mount. Nelly, happy to see her master and already her customarily restless self again, nearly bowled over the stable hands as they led her out of her stall, bounded up to Izlude and gave him a playful peck. After tipping the boy, and adding in a small recompense for the near-trampling, Izlude took the reins and left with Nelly in tow. As he arranged his gear in the saddlebags, Izlude also came to a grim realization regarding his money...

...or, rather, what was left of it.

What coin remained to him would need to last and, between that and the need to reach Gollund as quickly as possible, he likely would not pass the night in a bed for at least a few more days. Though he would've happily paid twice Claudio's asking price for the portrait of Alma, his purchase had precluded the possibility of renting a room at another inn. That meant at least several more days where he would have to eat and sleep on the road. And, while he had the money to buy enough food to last him and Nelly until they reached the next city, he would also need to supplement his provisions if the opportunity presented himself. In addition to training him and Meliadoul as knights, Vormav also taught his children useful survival skills - such as hunting, trapping, fishing, and foraging - which Izlude has used and, in turn, taught to his own subordinates for use in the event that their food supplies ran low while in the field.

Izlude felt a sad smile tug at his features as he remembered those days, wondering what had become of his father after Hashalum's destruction, and hoping he remembered his lessons.

After a quick stop at a provisioner's shop and purchasing as much food as he could afford, Izlude mounted Nelly and gave her reins a gentle flick. Hardly needing the encouragement, Nelly gave a mighty 'wark' and, within moments, the pair had left Dorter Trade City behind. As the city receded in the distance, Izlude took one final glance back. Though his eyes were no longer bleary with drink, Nelly's speed prevented him from seeing much, but he could still make out what was important.

Dorter, like Ivalice herself, was battered but unbroken; damaged, but still determined.

Wounded, and yet perseverant.

Though he wished he could have stayed a bit longer, perhaps to take in more of what he had seen and felt as he beheld this revivification, he knew time was of the essence if he was going to secure a place in this new mining project in Gollund. Even though he knew he could find other jobs easily enough, the knight blade was sure that very few would pay as well as this Consortium's mining project. And, between his talk with the Boulder Devils and the stone's corroborating gyrations, he was firm in his decision that Gollund represented his best chance, especially now that the demand for his sword was not nearly as great as during the war. The newly formed Order of the Chimera notwithstanding, many knights had chosen to return home to their families and taken on new professions more in demand now that Ivalice had turned her attention to mending the wounds inflicted upon her by nobility, clergy, bandits, and demons alike. After over half a century of war, Ivalice had a long way to go before she was restored to her former glory. But, from what little he'd seen so far, the knight blade did not doubt that better days lay ahead.

And, however long it took and whatever else awaited him in this second life, he was grateful that his second chance at life had given him the chance to see it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Ok, chapter 9 done. Next Izlude will head onto Gollund for his new job and discover just why the pay is so generous so please look forward to it :) Once again, I would like to thank my co-writer and editor, Falchion1984 for his help in making this story possible as well as Arisa of FineArtsIllustrations for bringing our story to life with her wonderful art! Please check out her DA: http://arisa777o-w-o.deviantart.com/


	10. Contrition and Compassion

As the weeks passed in Lionel, the people continued to see strange signs abounding from the castle, which all had believed abandoned after two of its former lords had met untimely ends. Those who were brave enough to approach the foreboding mass of stone continued to report that sounds of activity yet echoed from within. Some heard nails being hammered in, others heard food simmering over the stove, and others still heard laughing and banter which was punctuated by the sounds of cutlery clinking against plates. By night, these strange goings-on would seem to taper off until, typically while the moon was high in the sky and most honest folk were seeking what rest they might find in Lionel Castle's ominous shadow, the wailing of an infant rang out. Those who were roused by this wailing, and who were wakeful enough to realize from whence it came, would peer towards the castle and see a light flare in a window.

And, from the distant fortress, came the sounds of gentle humming.

The wailing would turn to mere fussing and, later, would fall silent, though the humming would persist for several minutes longer before it too fell silent and the light dimmed.

Despite the seeming innocuousness of these phenomena, the people spared only infrequent, furtive glances towards Lionel Castle and spoke of its "new tenets" either in frightened whispers or not at all. Most, owing to the sinister history of the foreboding edifice, still suspected that these newcomers were restless spirits of the dead and continued to give the castle a wide berth. Some whispered that these phantoms might be former residents of the castle, anchored to the mortal world by the horrors visited upon them by Heretic Ramza, wracked by torturous denial of their grisly ends and, consequently, unable to journey to the next life. Others still suspected that it might be the long dead spirits of the pagan Pharists, granted a new, unholy life by their heathen gods with which to wreck vengeance on those faithful to the truth of Ajora's Word. Whatever reason was proscribed to these strange happenings, and knowing how the undead behaved in other parts of Ivalice, the people kept weapons and supplies of phoenix down close at hand, lest these lost souls boil forth in search of flesh to devour.

Yet, to the relief of all and the perplexity of some, the expected onslaught did not happen.

This caused the whispers in Lionel about the strange happenings to undergo a shift. In a land where the bones of the long dead could rise again and where the shades of evil men wandered by night rather than face punishment for their crimes in life, a veritable field of study had arisen around the subject of the walking dead. Many, such as the skeletons and ghosts which could be encountered in the darker places of Ivalice, were mindless but ferocious specters, capable of besting living warriors with either the strength of their bony arms or their ability to drain the vitality of their victims with but a touch of their wispy claws. Though already being dead made them quite difficult to kill, a strong blade and some phoenix down could see a living opponent emerge the victor over these creatures.

Far more dangerous than these, however, were the ghosts which kept their semblance of life. These were often the souls of fallen warriors who had been anchored to the living world, often by the horrors of their deaths or by what they'd left undone before their passing. Other such specters, however, were the shades of those who'd done much evil in life and, in an effort to avoid an eternity of suffering as punishment for their many crimes, had chosen to linger in the living world as lost souls. In either case, these phantoms retained the training, talents, and intelligence they had in life, and could even conjure spectral blades and armor which were no less potent than those wrought of iron and steel.

Would-be ghost hunters, those seeking to free friends and loved ones from such a fate and those seeking revenge on wrongdoers who'd cheated their way out of a damning final judgment, were just as likely to add to these spectral ranks as they were to diminish them.

Yet, curiously, the specters of Lionel Castle seemed to behave like none of these dreaded manifestations.

Granted, the sounds that wended their way out of the castle certainly suggested that something dwelt within, and none believed for a moment that the living would dare take up residence after the deaths of Cardinal Draclau and Celebrant Bremondt. But, if specters were lurking within, they were most peculiar specimens.

Not only did they not emerge to stalk the living by night but, as far as the fearful people knew, they did not emerge, period. No less confounding were the still persistent reports of activity by day on the part of the castle's strange new occupants. Since most specters had an aversion to sunlight and were most aggressive by night, the fact that these phantoms seemed to behave in the exact opposite fashion ran well and truly against all known knowledge of the undead. No less bizarre, apart from the sounds of hammering, sizzling, and other clatter from within, those with the eyesight to spy the castle's windows reported that, where they'd been caked with dust but days before, they were now as clear as water. And, as if that wasn't enough, those who dared peer through the windows, though they saw no one about, realized that the once lush forest of cobwebs within was being cut away.

At first, the notion that the 'ghosts' of Lionel Castle were engaged in housekeeping had seemed utterly laughable. But, as more and more such reports trickled in, and some skeptics who'd decided to have a look for themselves returned with corroborating accounts, the furtive whisperings took another shift.

If not ghosts, skeletons, or the revenants of fallen Gryphon Knights or Pagans, then just what manner of ghost had taken residence in the castle?

An early theory was that these 'ghosts' might be echoes, lingering spirits who had not yet come to grips with their passing and who were, in the interim, behaving as they had in life. This in turn helped to explain why these echoes labored by day and were largely silent by night, just as a living human would be. Could some spectral members of Lionel Castle's household staff, not understanding they were dead, still be cooking and cleaning as though the rampage which had ended their lives had not occurred? Accounts of such 'echoes' were scarce, but those which could be considered reliable suggested that such shades were essentially harmless, and that they would continue acting as they had in life until those lingering ties to the world were laid to rest. This could be accomplished by seeing a loved one and saying a proper farewell, or some task they'd left undone being finished on their behalf, by helping them to face the reality of their deaths, or by being forcibly ejected from the mortal world by potent white magic.

That these ghosts might be harmless had reassured the people...for the better part of two heartbeats.

If these echoes, like ghosts and fallen warriors, could only affect the living matter of their victims, then how were they using hammers and nails? How were they lighting the fire of the stove and using cutlery? And, even if these were as ghostly as the specters who used them, how could these insubstantial phantoms brush away decidedly substantive cobwebs, or wipe dirty windows clean?

And so, with the balance of Lionel's sentiments gyrating between confusion and trepidation, they continued to furtively watch and listen, wondering if they ought to pray for answers or if those answers might simply rub salt into wounds yet unhealed.

However, there were others whose curiosity ultimately got the better of them and, one bright morning, they decided to seek their own answers…

* * *

"Are you sure about this, Manon?" a young girl's voice furtively whispered.

The young girl's companion, a lithe youth some months short of his thirteenth year, turned to face her and, with a grin which belied the urgency of the situation, brought one finger to his lips.

After all, if the specters of Lionel Castle really were dangerous, it would not be wise to alert them to the presence of the two adventurous youngsters who presently crouched in the foliage barely twenty paces away.

Like most of the respectable townsfolk of Lionel, these youngsters had heard tales of the supposed haunting of Lionel Castle. Such snippets as babies wailing, lanterns flaring to life in the night, and other oddities had been more than enough to repel even the bravest of the respectable townsfolk from embarking on such a close investigation of these strange phenomena...

...however, the pair presently creeping through the foliage were not respectable townsfolk.

This impression was accentuated by the disheveled appearance of the pair. The boy, Manon, had russet hair which had been cropped short - by his own hand, judging by the choppy and irregular cuts - while the girl, painfully thin looking and barely a week into her tenth year, had shoulder length locks that might've once been golden, but now looked more akin to tarnished brass. Both children's tresses were rife with snarls and festooned with leaves and twigs, not all of which came from their place of concealment. One of the boy's green eyes was practically swollen shut by a livid bruise he'd received the prior evening and it was just discernible that each of the girl's sky blue orbs, had, at one time, sported its own corona of black and purple. Their ragged clothes, which did little to conceal either the undernourished frames within, revealed other signs of violence, ranging from old scars and faint bruises to lacerations that yet wept crimson tears. Such signs of violence collected over so young a life would lend considerable weight to the supposition that these two might be young ruffians in the midst of some manner of skullduggery.

Neither of the children would be surprised or much distressed by this preconception, nor were they likely to disagree. After all, every other child who'd been raised in the defunct Lionel workhouses looked much like they did, if not worse...and, indeed, some of them truly were young ruffians of the foulest sort.

Under an edict issued by Cardinal Draclau following the end of the Fifty Years War, a number of workhouses, such as the one the youngsters had left behind not long ago, had been established in the Lionel cities of Zaland, Goug, and Warjilis. These, the Cardinal had stated, would serve to offer shelter, succor and, later, guidance to the many war orphans in the province so that, whether adoptive parents materialized or not, the misfortunate children of those who'd died untimely would have the skills needed to pursue an honest life.

That was the theory, and it was a sound one. In practice, however, terrible complications arose.

Apart from the seemingly endless wave of orphans the calamitous war had produced, the funds slated for the project had inexplicably vanished. To this very day, no official explanation had surfaced from either church or state as to how or why such vast sums of gil could disappear, seemingly overnight and with nary a trace. Rumors persisted that these funds had been embezzled or forcibly reallocated to pay off the crushing debts Ivalice had accrued during the conflict, while others argued that the sheer number of orphans, and the combined costs of feeding and housing them all, had bankrupted the project. Other rumors, which were but whispered in dark and secluded corners, stated that the funds were diverted to finance some sort of expedition to ruins located in Goug and Zeltennia, where long lost artifacts dating back to Ajora's time had been discovered. Other rumors, no less whispered, suggested that it had been done to finance the hunt for a thief in Goug who'd discovered a lost treasure of the church and had unlawfully kept it for himself. Few could even conceive that so beloved a Cardinal could have allowed so noble an endeavor to be looted right under his nose, let alone that he had done so himself, regardless of the reason. And, thus, those who still pined after the late Cardinal's governance were quick to cast aspersions somewhere else. Anywhere else.

Regardless of the frantic assigning of blame, the results spoke for themselves in terrible voices. Once the funds were gone, and appeals for financial aid had ended in failure, life for the hundreds of wards in those workhouses had promptly degenerated into discord and violence. As the payment for the workers' services and funds needed for food and rents began arriving late, short, and, eventually, not at all, many of those placed in charge of the wards had abandoned their posts. The wards themselves, having nowhere else to go, were left to their own devices and, in the grim vacuum created by their abandonment, these former bastions of compassion and charity degenerated into foul dens of crime and violence. The older wards reinvented themselves as thugs who, either by intimidation or violence, dragged their younger counterparts into lives of crime.

The two children presently skulking about in Lionel Castle's shadow had been particularly resistant to such coercion, hence their numerous injuries. And, having seen too many other, similarly resistant wardmates die in terrible 'accidents', they'd ultimately decided to take their chances on the streets.

Yet, though their innocence had long been, literally, beaten out of them, they were still children. And, despite the bruises that marred their bodies and the thorns festooning their unshod feet, they still thrilled to the prospect of an adventure that might alter the course of their hard, meager lives.

Thus, the pair found themselves crouched amidst the unkempt foliage that, at some point, had been the formal hedges and bushes which had served as landscaping for the castle. Overgrown and seemingly misshapen as meticulous trimming was undone by nature's erratic hand, and with overlong branches that reached out like grasping fingers, these did little to dispel the impression that Lionel Castle might now be a den of phantasms.

"Well," Manon murmured as loudly as he dared, We've come this far, so we might as well get closer. I can see that side door we used to sneak into the kitchen, but I can't tell if it's locked or not. Let's move in closer and-"

"Wait, wait!" the girl clamored, loudly enough that her companion gave her an irate look, though this did nothing to curb her sudden enthusiasm. "Look, Manon, someone's coming out!"

Manon looked almost amused by this claim until, to his amazement, he heard a woman's voice humming a tune. His head snapped in the direction of the sound and, his good eye going wide and his black eye straining to follow suit, he beheld a woman in a modest gown the color of a dusking sky. Both children watched, transfixed, as the woman emerged from the tiny gap between the castle's gates. That a reported ghost did not simply walk through the door, however, was not the cause of the pair's suddenly being dumbstruck, nor was her seeming as alive as they were.

The woman was _stunning!_

She was fairly young, perhaps just past her twentieth year, but she moved with the poise of one much older...or, perhaps, one who, like them, had been tempered by fate far sooner than expected. Whatever hand had lent her that strange air, however, had also lent her a shapely figure. The two siblings had seen more than a few attractive girls amongst their former wardmates, with generous curves about the bosom and the backside, but each and all paled compared to the woman they beheld. Even under her skirts, there was no hiding the sway of her hips, nor her shapely legs, both of which caused Manon's jaw to creak open.

What drew the girl's gaze, however, was the woman's face. She had high, elegant cheekbones which were gently suffused with red, and eyes the color of a clear sky. And, her hair! Neither of the pair had ever seen crimson tresses like those which the woman sported, coiled into a trio of braids, two of which cascaded over her shoulders to frame her breasts while the remaining coil swayed about the small of her back.

"Wow," the girl murmured, her thoughts well and truly scattered by the graceful creature before them.

"My word exactly, Charlotte," her companion echoed, before his usual mischievousness reasserted itself. "Well, I might've come up with some better ones, but..."

The girl, Charlotte, rolled her eyes and pantomimed the motion of slapping Manon across the face. Even after their lives in the workhouse had taken so dreadful a turn, a smile would still tug at Manon's lips whenever he laid eyes on an attractive girl. At first, this had bothered Charlotte, as she'd felt a curious melancholy when she'd once seen Manon's wandering hands ghosting the generous curves of Francine, their seventeen year old former wardmate. And yet, when Manon had discovered Francine pressuring Charlotte to join the older girl's budding prostitution ring, those same wandering hands had left Francine spitting teeth and hauled Charlotte away from that crumbling den of inequity.

She still felt a strange twinge in her chest when Manon stared at someone like he presently gaped at the woman, but she figured she owed it to Manon to humor his boyish lack of control.

Still, Charlotte supposed, skirt chasers were probably the most benign things either of them had seen emerge from those decrepit shacks. Besides which, Charlotte could not help but feel envious of the woman whose smallest action made her feel every bit the urchin she was.

"Well, if that's a ghost, maybe being dead isn't as bad as they say," Manon quipped, chuckling.

"Don't say that!" Charlotte hissed, not caring for the jest. "I...I wouldn't have made it out of that rotten place without you."

Manon had been about to offer another quip in response, but the sight of Charlotte's downcast face brought him up short.

"Yeah, and I'd probably be knife-man for one of those brutes if I didn't have you," he said, laying a reassuring hand on Charlotte's shoulder. "But, that's behind us. So, I say we find out just what sort of ghost we've found. Let's get in closer."

Charlotte had been about to voice how nonplussed she was at the notion of approaching a supposed ghost, but the words died in her throat when a wondrous aroma reached her nostrils. Shimmying ahead of Manon for a closer look, she saw that the woman had seated herself beside a rose hedge and was examining the blooms. However, that was not what drew Charlotte's eyes and silenced her objections.

On the ground next to the woman was a small plate, upon which were a number of rolls, each bigger than her fist.

And, after nearly three days without so much as a morsel, just the sight of it was enough to make her empty stomach lurch in desire.

"Well, that settles that, eh?" Manon quipped, unable to keep a hint of amusement from his tone. "Okay, here's the plan."

* * *

In the past, following the collapse of the workhouses and the subsequent poverty and turmoil of the War of the Lions, Manon and Charlotte had often had to secure their daily bread through means which could best be described as "questionable". Alone on the streets amidst the chaos of a war that threatened to undo Ivalice, and with only themselves to rely on, the two children had been forced to embark on more than one hair-raising escapade where a crust of bread served as the prize.

With a whole _plate_ of bread just begging to be snatched, the pair was determined to be in rare form today.

Taking care to keep their voices low, the two children had a hurried discussion about how to approach the dual conundrum of discovering whether the woman was a ghost and, if not, pilfering her pastries. Manon, despite Charlotte's objections, took it upon himself to act as the diversion...

...and, knowing Manon, Charlotte suspected that, whatever he had in mind, would have the woman thoroughly distracted indeed.

Once his diversion was underway, Charlotte would snatch the rolls and dive back into the concealing brush.

Thus resolved, the pair sized up the terrain which stood between them and their goal. Though there were no trees between them and the seated woman to offer concealment, there was several other misshapen hedges and several patches of grass whose blades were nearly as tall as they themselves were. Being small of stature and light of build, it was a simple matter for the pair to dart from one place of concealment to the next, leaving nary a bent blade of grass in their wake. As they reached an especially grotesque looking bush roughly equidistant between their original hiding place and the still seated woman, Manon began snatching up pebbles and twigs and directed Charlotte to head to another hedge on the right while he ventured to a patch of tall grass on the left.

No sooner had Charlotte ducked behind the mass of claw-like branches then she heard the all too familiar sounds of pebbles whistling through the air to rebound off of the castle walls. The woman must've heard it too, for her head snapped up and her gaze darted in the direction of the sound. Curiously, Charlotte noticed the woman's hands, which were no less delicate than the rest of her, clutch her belly, almost protectively.

This sight causes a ghost of a memory to stir within Charlotte's mind, almost as if she had witnessed a similar scene at some point before. What this might mean, she could not say, but the question was promptly forced aside when her own belly reminded her of the prize so near to hand.

The woman, apparently brushing off the sound, had turned her attention back to the roses when the air was suddenly rent by the rapport of a twig being snapped in two. The incredulous chattering of two birds, startled into flight by the noise, brought the woman to her feet and, Charlotte noted with some perplexity, had her breath coming in ragged gasps. Still, whatever the cause of this strange anxiety, it was obvious that she was no shrinking violet. Snatching up a staff which, unnoticed by the pair, had been laid on the ground in front of her, she rose and cautiously made her way towards the tall grass. At the sight of the staff, Charlotte found herself second guessing the wisdom of their plan.

If this woman was some sort of a mage, then might their small theft end in a hail of fireballs?

The image of Manon's sun-kissed skin blackening under the heat of eldritch flame filled her with dread, and yet she knew it was too late to withdraw. Apart from the tantalizing nearness of the plate of rolls, which might as well have been a feast to the half-starved waifs, the pair knew that the folk in the nearest towns were well aware of them and were surely too alert now to be fooled by the children's repertoire of tricks. What's more, hunger would surely claim them long before they could reach an area where they might find a modicum of anonymity with which to steal their next supper.

Still, Charlotte found herself holding back a rising tide of panic as the woman continued to approach Manon's hiding place.

Once Charlotte had judged the woman to be far enough away, she rose and soundlessly made her way to the abandoned plate. She was about to snatch it up when a yelp brought her up short. Fearfully, wondering if she might be about to see a blast of crackling fire streaking towards her, she raised her eyes. And, what she saw made her lower jaw drop.

The woman, whose jaw had also fallen open, was standing within a hand span of the patch of tall grass. Behind her was Manon, who had risen from his place of concealment to make sure that the woman was, indeed, thoroughly distracted.

Charlotte had to rub her eyes and, even when the image before her remained unchanged, she still could not believe it.

Manon, having apparently chosen to divert attention to himself in a characteristically salacious fashion, had his ever-wandering hands up the woman's skirt.

"By Draclau's bald pate!" he blurted out, deliberately making himself as loud as possible so that Charlotte might go unnoticed. "They're real! She's real!"

Despite half a second of disbelief, and another strange twinge in her chest, Charlotte knew better than to let such a diversion go to waste. Darting forward, she snatched up the plate of rolls, keeping them from spilling with the practiced ease of an experienced thief. Even though they'd cooled during the intervening mischief, just the sight of the flaky crusts was enough to make her eyes mist with happiness. Resisting the urge to shove one, or several, into her mouth on the spot, she quickly darted back into the brush. She'd already been mentally tracing her path back to her and Manon's chosen point of egress when she suddenly felt herself being lifted off of the ground.

Keeping hold of her pilfered pastries with the desperate strength with which a castaway might keep hold of a rock in a stormy sea, she craned her neck and beheld the glaring visage of a woman with reddish blonde hair.

The woman whose grace and beauty had stunned her so was, indeed, real...unfortunately, so was her rather ferocious looking bodyguard.

A quick, despairing glance in Manon's direction revealed that he'd been flanked by two young women with blonde hair and plumed helms, both of whom were palming their hilts of their swords in a silent warning for the boy not to try anything foolish.

This sight, and the fine armor she belated noticed her own captor wearing, caused Charlotte's heart to drop right to her bare ankles. Not only was the strange woman inhabiting Lionel Castle not a ghost, but she must also be some sort of a noblewoman to have such guards seeing to her well-being. And, unwitting though it was, Manon's 'tactics' may have just earned the two children a place in the local gallows.

When the woman directed for the two children to be brought to her, Charlotte could swear she already felt the noose around her small neck.

Yet, to her amazement, this did not happen.

Neither Manon nor Charlotte could explain it, but a most curious expression had come over the woman's face as she beheld the two urchins. Her lips, full and red, parted in what seemed akin to amazement while her eyes widened. Then, hesitantly, she brought up one hand to Manon's face and, rather than slap him as Charlotte had expected, she traced one fine boned finger around his eyes, causing the boy to wince as she brushed his black eye.

"Oh, sorry!" she blurted, almost as though she'd been roused from some manner of trance.

Charlotte felt her perplexity grow. She and Manon had encountered at least a few nobles since fleeing their former workhouse, and not one of them would've given a second thought towards striking a filthy street waif. Yet, to the pair's continued astonishment, the woman continued her perusal of Manon's features and, as she did so, Charlotte could swear that the woman's eyes were misting.

Charlotte gave a quick glance in Manon's direction and, though his black eye made it hard to tell, she did not doubt that he was every bit as bewildered as she was.

Then, as if Charlotte were not confounded enough already, the woman's eyes turned upon her and those full, red lips curved into a hint of a smile.

A sad, almost nostalgic smile, but a smile nonetheless.

"Er...," Manon blurted, at a loss for words for the first time either child could remember, but words tinged with urgency promptly began to tumble out of him. "If it pleases your ladyship, my grabbing your...I mean, what I did was my idea. Charlotte had nothing to do with it, she just wanted some food. I beg you, don't punish her for what was my fault."

Charlotte could swear she felt her heart vault into her throat as she realized what Manon was doing.

"No, please!" she begged, her own voice stinging her ears after speaking in little more than whispers for what felt like years. "He's all I have! Please, don't take him away from me, milady!"

If the woman was startled by this outburst, she gave no sign. Instead, those sky blue eyes locked with her own for a long moment, and then with Manon's green eyes, as though seeking what might lie behind the reported windows into the soul.

"No?" she asked, stroking her chin gently as though sorting her thoughts. "Perhaps not."

She leaned in closer and brought up one hand to gently stroke the two children's sunken cheeks.

"I've thought of a better use for you."

* * *

"Are we sure about this?" Rad asked, his customary salaciousness overshadowed by palpable skepticism and concern.

"Nope," Lavian and Alicia replied in unison, and their grimly flat tones conveyed just how great an understatement that single word was.

Not that Alma could blame them, of course.

Before he had even gotten his breath following the harrowing battle against Altima, Ramza had made it quite clear that, if the Beoulve siblings were to survive in the Ivalice which would emerge from the ashes of the War of the Lions, it was imperative that no one realize that either remnant of the Beoulve line was still alive. Though the Church of Glabados was still reeling from the loss of much of its leadership and the decimation of the Knights Templar, discovering that Heretic Ramza, the man upon whom they heaped all the troubles of the world, was still alive would surely visit catastrophe upon the small band of fugitives.

Until such time as Delita could secure the Beoulve siblings' new identities - assuming he kept his word, everyone muttered under their breath when they thought Alma wasn't listening - that meant they had to exercise the utmost secrecy, lest they attract the attention of their remaining enemies. In the meantime, any travel outside the castle had to be done sparingly, with as few witnesses as possible, and taking roundabout paths so that the locals did not realize the strange travelers had come from Lionel Castle. Above all, their lives in exile must pass without so much as a hint of their former identities passing their lips while within a league of anyone outside their infamous band.

Needless to say, inviting two complete strangers into their home in exile had seemed quite daft when Alma had first proposed the idea.

Suppose the pair caught onto the true identities of their would-be benefactors and spread the word? What if the pair discovered the hidden Zodiac Stones and, thinking to earn sordid coin from one last theft, unwittingly allowed the deadly auracite, and the demons within, to escape back into the world?

Even if neither of those dread prospects came to fruition, there was still the matter of just what terms the children would be staying. Would it last until relatives or adoptive parents could be found? And, if such could not be done, then how long would they stay? For that matter, just how would they spend that time? Alma suspected that they could be willing to earn their room and board by helping the small band make a home out of the dusty and dreary castle, though two small children seemed unlikely to lessen the burden of maintaining so large an estate with so few hands. If whatever arrangement was formed turned out to be a long one, then were the children to be salaried? Though Ramza would never withhold an honest day's wages to one who'd rendered him a service, he was also wise enough to know that not everyone who earned an honest day's pay made honest use of it. And, on top of all that, there was no telling if the pair could be trusted with the treasure the small group had secreted in the castle.

Not just the mounds of gold accrued through battle, nor the vast collection of ancient relics acquired during harrowing adventures in the darker places of Ivalice, but the far more precious and vulnerable treasures that were little Rachel and her unborn cousin.

These were hard questions, ones that would have to be answered sooner or later, and Alma could not blame Ramza for being leery about allowing perfect strangers under the same roof as his newborn daughter.

Yet, for all that, and despite the arguments of her fellow fugitives, the Beoulve girl would not be swayed from her decision to allow Manon and Charlotte into her new home.

As to the why of it, however, the words to give voice to her heart proved elusive. Though she spent some moments tripping over her tongue, Ramza and Agrias suspected the truth almost at once. What's more, had Meliadoul remained amongst them, she might very well have confirmed it.

The boy, Manon, bore an uncanny resemblance to Izlude...and, indeed, Alma's own child might resemble Manon a great deal once the threshold of adolescence drew near.

More than that - and, more than how much Alma could see of herself in Manon's companion, Charlotte - she could see that the two waifs meant a great deal to one another. She could see it in how the blood had drained from Charlotte's sunken cheeks when she'd realized that Manon was trying to offer himself to the gallows in hopes that she might be spared. Indeed, whatever nightmarish vision flashed before Charlotte's eyes would've played out if he'd used such a 'diversionary tactic' on another, any other, noblewoman. Perhaps it was nostalgia, maybe it was some burgeoning maternal instinct, or it could have been the grief which yet lingered in her heart at her beloved's passing. But, whatever the reason, she could swear she saw in Manon and Charlotte a reflection of what she and Izlude had shared before he'd been so cruelly taken from her.

Might this have been what she and Izlude would have looked like if they had been born into poverty, but had had the greater fortune of knowing each other all through such a hard and meager life? For that matter, might the pair have been what would've come from the love she and Izlude had shared if he'd lived to see their child and to, later on, gift her with another?

She was not so addled by recollections happy and sad as to believe she was seeing a second chance for the love she and Izlude had briefly shared - though Manon clearly had his better angels, he had far more in common with Rad than Izlude - but the reflection was so eerily close that her heart ached at the notion of turning out the youngsters and watching her own sad history be repeated.

Without family, homeless, and half-starved, the only question was whether Manon would bury Charlotte or the other way around.

And so, despite the grave weight of the risks it entailed, Alma had argued in favor of taking in the two waifs. Apart from her own peace of mind, she suspected that, despite their attempt to steal from her, the pair were less the product of their darker natures than they were of their desperation. And that, perhaps, with the chance to earn their daily bread with honest work, they might yet find a better future, just as Ivalice herself sought to.

Though she knew Ramza had to be aware that her insistence would add a whole host of fresh concerns to a seemingly endless list, she was aware that he also knew all too well the wonders that could come from the simple act of granting a second chance to one who'd done wrong to oneself.

 _Besides_ , she added silently. _Rachel and my baby might appreciate a few more playmates._

No sooner had Alma finished the musing than she found herself gasping as her unborn child, as though sensing her train of thought, suddenly lurched inside her belly. The sudden motion startled her so that the skillet she was using to make omelets wobbled ominously in her hand. At the last, however, she steadied herself and blew out a sigh of relief.

"I'm glad you agree, but you should try and to mind your timing in the future," she whispered as she caressed her belly.

She reflected that it was fortunate Ramza hadn't been in the kitchen to see that episode, as her brother's gentle chiding was growing tiresome. Though Ramza had eventually come around to the idea of Manon and Charlotte joining them in the castle, the former Beoulve had lost no time pointing out just how easily Alma's search for flowers could've attracted the eye of intruders far worse than a pair of curious children. Once his hands had stopped wringing, mostly because Agrias had threatened to make him sleep in the hallway if he kept it up, he promptly reiterated his wish that she rest and avoid exerting herself as much as possible. The Beoulve girl, however, could not bear the notion of sitting idle while everyone else in her household was working themselves to the bone in order to maintain their new home, as well as provide for and feed themselves. Though her defiance had been tempered by her talk with Reis about how easily Agrias could have lost Rachel, Alma nonetheless rose with the dawn, sometimes earlier than Agrias and the Murry twins, and promptly set about making breakfast for her new, strange household. On this particular day, however, the drab and dreary interior of the castle finally pushed her beyond endurance and she set about finding some flowers to brighten up the foreboding mass of stone.

Her hunt for flowers, however, had turned up quite a bit more than she'd bargained for, but she suspected that she'd eventually have a thousand reasons to pardon Manon's wandering hands.

Since Lionel Castle was still largely in a state of disrepair, there was no shortage of work to be done in order to make the rest of it livable again. Though the children had been more than a little skeptical at the notion of helping to restore a supposedly haunted castle on behalf of a pair of nobles they'd never even heard of, the offer of three meals a day and a safe place to sleep by night had quickly swayed them. Still, that meant there were only eight of them living on an estate meant to be staffed by dozens, if not hundreds. Apart from the cavernous halls and ever twisting corridors within the castle, the stables and courtyard had also suffered copious neglect that would not be easily rectified. Doubtless the Galthana twins faced like difficulties with their home of Riovanes, which yet held a sinister reputation due to the rampage of Hashmalum and his fellow Lucavi thralls. Still, if people were beginning to approach Lionel Castle to see about the goings-on within, perhaps it meant that others might overcome their fear of the Lionel Castle and, given time, the Beoulve siblings might be able to hire a proper staff to help maintain their newfound home.

Well, they do say even the largest tasks start with the smallest steps, she mused as she glanced at the two children.

Manon and Charlotte had, much to the surprise of her fellow fugitives, proven quite apt at their newfound duties. Though growing up in the defunct workhouses had stolen their childhoods, it had also taught the pair how to survive on their own and that even the smallest of gifts merit gratitude. Though Manon had been quick to mirror some of Rad's disreputable habits, as evidenced by how the boy was presently gazing at the Murry twins with a troubling intensity, he'd also been proven quite fastidious as he helped his elders sweep, dust, and wipe away the copious signs of the castle's neglect. What's more, his small frame and remarkable agility allowed him to scramble up to the rafters in order to combat an especially fierce patch of dry rot. Charlotte, meanwhile, had proven to be quite an asset in the kitchen...

...both as a surprisingly talented cook and as her own favorite taste tester.

"Ack!" the girl gagged through a mouthful of roast potato. "I must've used too much salt. Oh, well. No sense letting the rest go to waste."

Charlotte quickly scribbled something on a piece of smudged parchment she kept on the corner of her counter and, her overuse of the salt apparently disregarded, promptly finished the remainder of the "failed" potato in several noisy bites. The Beoulve girl couldn't help but snicker at the sight of the would-be chef's cheeks straining to hold in the aborted dish while her small hands shoveled it in all the faster. Still, though they yet wore rags and were surrounded by strangers, there was no hiding how much better the two children looked...

...which, upon reflection, said a great deal about what they must've been through before their curiosity brought them to Lionel Castle's doorstep.

Though the pair had been too young to understand what had caused their former workhouse to become a den of inequity, Agrias and the Murry twins had discerned the truth and told Alma once they could find a moment to confer in privacy.

Cardinal Draclau had founded the workhouses to aid the many orphans of the Fifty Years War and, apparently after his subversion by the Lucavi, had looted their funding in order to hire the Baert Trading Company and Gafgarion to hunt down Mustadio and the Taurus Stone. Perhaps the subverted cardinal had wanted to avoid drawing the unwelcome distraction of the High Confessor's ire by admitting that he'd lost a supposed holy relic, or maybe he'd wanted to make sure that the stone found its way into the hands of a suitable candidate for demonic possession rather than being used as a symbol to raise the High Confessor's planned rebellion against the crown. In either case, this act had meant abandoning Manon, Charlotte, and God knows how many other children to lives of poverty and crime.

Having briefly been host to a Lucavi herself, though, Alma was uniquely aware of just how meaningless the lives of a few humans were to demonkind...and, conversely, how much the denizens of hell delighted in causing such misery.

This newly discovered crime by the Lucavi - made all the more sickening, as founding those same workhouses had likely been Draclau's final act as a man whose soul was still his own, and perhaps even while he was still as altruistic as so many believed him to be - had served to galvanize Ramza into making some good come out of his unexpected governance of Lionel. As the new lord of the province, it was within Ramza's power to have the workhouses rebuilt and their original mission resumed, and being a parent himself likely spurred Ramza all the more towards that challenge. By that same token, the former Beoulve was also empowered, and eager, to restore Beowulf to his former position as captain of Lionel Castle's contingent of knights once the newly formed Order of the Chimera had established a presence in Lionel. However, though Alma echoed his sentiments, she knew there were no shortage of complications with that plan. Even if Beowulf was reinstated, he had no order of knights to command, and likely would not for several months. What's more, financing either the rebuilding of Lionel's knights or the workhouses would prove quite difficult so long as the people of the province believed Lionel Castle to be inhabited only by ghosts. By that same token, Alma's position as duchess meant little with no servants to run her household and the fact that she had hitherto avoided crossing paths with any citizen of the Lionel region. As yet, the only real use for her title would be to attract a husband when she, Ramza, and their friends made for Lesalia next month.

Alma let out a heavy sigh, reluctant as always to explore that particular sore subject, but knowing she had little choice in the matter. Perhaps a week after the small band had settled into the castle, Alma had stumbled upon Ramza poring over a letter - apparently from Delita and which, as far as she could tell, was written in an incomprehensible jumble of letters and numbers. These letters had come twice a week, though always on different days, and even those fugitives aware of the letters had no idea how they were being delivered or their contents. Ramza had unerringly deflected any inquires on Alma's part until, having run out of patience, she'd finally resorted to a nigh flawless reproduction of one of her childhood tantrums. From prior experience, she knew that the sight of her quivering lip and misty eyes would cause her brother's obstinacy to melt like snow under a firaja spell. Her tactic had worked even better than it had back then, and she'd gotten the truth out of him.

She almost wished she hadn't, for the mist in her eyes became quite real when she heard Ramza's explanation.

While the balls at Lesalia were, indeed, meant to introduce Delita's 'cousins' to the Ivalician population and secure their new identities, they had a larger purpose in attracting a husband for Alma. The letters traveling back and forth between Lionel and Lesalia - heavily enciphered so that no prying eyes could discern their contents - had contained the particulars of the plan, as well as advance word of likely candidates.

The Beoulve girl could still feel the shock of those words, and the cold dread that lingered beneath. She'd suspected this would happen and had ever since she'd learned that Delita's plans styled her as his cousin and, therefore, a branch of the royal family. But, that didn't make it any easier to bear.

As the daughter of a noble house, she knew that her marital prospects had been discussed in whispers practically since her birth. Amongst the nobility, arranged marriages was a custom older than most of those families which practiced it and, on those rare occasions when someone at that school where Teta had been so ill-treated had deigned speak to the Beoulve girl, she'd often hear her classmates tell her that they were engaged to boys they'd never even met.

At the time, Alma had regarded their apparent delight at the prospect with perplexity.

Later, when she'd chanced upon a former classmate whose betrothed in no way resembled their romantic fantasies, her perplexity turned to pity.

Though she liked to think her father would not have married her off to a man she could not love, she suspected that, even as he lay in his sickbed, he'd been under some pressure to decide upon a likely son-in-law.

Perhaps, with his sister, and a supposed cousin of royalty, pregnant out of wedlock, Ramza had taken that burden upon his shoulders as well?

Mechanically tending to the simmering omelet, Alma mulled over her situation. She knew that many, if not all of the men who'd be vying for her hand would more likely have their eye on her purse rather than her, but she also knew that the child taking shape in her womb would force the issue sooner or later.

The still tender wound in her heart at Izlude's passing would do nothing to delay the birth of her child, nor lessen the burden of raising him or her without the man who should have been her husband.

And yet, though Alma told herself time and again that her baby would need a father, seeds of doubt yet sought to take root in her mind. Though Ramza hadn't said so, it seemed likely that he and Delita were gambling that she could be wedded and bedded soon enough that her husband would not realize that her pregnancy was another man's handiwork and that he would see nothing untoward when 'his child' was born.

 _Your Uncle Ramza is a very silly man, isn't he?_ she mused to her baby, though without a drop of mirth.

Unless she managed to find a man who could pass as Izlude's twin - and, after meeting three dashing, green-eyed brunettes already, she wasn't laying coin on her chances of getting so lucky a fourth time - she could imagine quite a few signs on her child which would betray the scheme.

And, when that happened, then what?

She suspected it would be a moot point anyway. She'd be at least four months along by then and, barring some masterfully creative tailoring, someone was bound to notice that she was a fair bit heavier than her small frame warranted.

Forcefully shaking her head, she tried to turn her attention somewhere else. Anywhere else.

And, inevitably, her wandering thoughts turned to Izlude.

Once more, her eyes misted as she remembered his handsome face, his dashing figure, and how, even when she was in chains before him, he'd unfailingly treated her with such kindness.

Yet, Izlude was dead, and her baby would need a father...even if that meant she'd have to lie to the child and her future husband all their lives and watch another man in what should've been her beloved knight blade's place.

Her grim reverie was broken, however, when she felt another stirring under her ribs. Her dark thoughts were blown out in a second, louder gasp and she once more found her eyes darting to the pan. She'd hoped this episode too had gone unnoticed but, with most the castle watching her almost as closely as they did Rachel, that hope was short-lived.

"Is everything all right, Catherine?" the Beoulve girl heard a voice ring out, the stressed use of her pseudonym not lost on her.

Her gaze snapped in the direction of the sound and she saw Agrias, who'd had a baking paddle laden with kneaded dough for rolls halfway to the oven when she'd heard her friend's startled gasp.

"Oh, it's nothing!" the Beoulve girl insisted as she let out an uneasy laugh. "Your niece or nephew just kicked me, is all."

One of Agrias's eyebrows arched at these words, and Alma found herself pondering the wisdom of confessing her misgivings on the spot. However, between Charlotte's noisy chewing and the all too familiar sound of Rad carousing with the twins, she decided that such a discussion was best had in private. Still, though she knew Agrias shouldered no small burden with her own child and her persistent worries over Ovelia's well-being, the Beoulve girl decided that the pair ought to talk in private. Thus, she wordlessly signaled this by tracing a circle over her heart, joining thumb and forefinger, and then spreading them wide, breaking the circle...

...just as surely as her heart was breaking.

The holy knight gave a nearly invisible nod, showing she understood the message, and then let a grin tug at the corners of her mouth.

"I notice the little one has been doing that a lot lately…," she observed. "Rachel was much the same way, and only when she wasn't busy growing!"

"I know, when I first saw you, I thought you were wearing an extra war-pack over your stomach," Alma replied in a teasing voice as she rubbed her belly.

Agrias feigned a scowl for a heartbeat or two but, when she heard Charlotte, Manon, Rad, and the twins all snickering under their breaths, she rolled her eyes and allowed a self-deprecating grin to cross her features.

"Sooner or later, Catherine...," Agrias intoned, her words trailing off ominously as she pointed to the Beoulve girl and began to pantomime an ungainly waddle.

That sparked a fresh wave of laughter from the others in the kitchen and, much to her surprise, Alma felt the weight on her heart ease by a small degree.

Izlude might be gone, and her future husband was most unlikely to fill that void, but at least there were others who cared for her and her child.

"The baby just loves attention, it seems. Just like his or her father," Alma blushed as her thoughts wended their way back to her lost love. This time, however, his horrific passing did not rise to the forefront of her thoughts, but she instead recalled the childish and yet adorable means Izlude resorted to when he wanted her attention. When he was in one of his playful moods, the knight blade would sneak up behind Alma and grab her from behind. After putting up a pretense of half-hearted resistance, she would snuggle against his powerful form while he trailed kisses down her collarbone or suddenly blew in her ear and began nuzzling her neck like a curious puppy.

Upon hearing this, the twins giggled with amusement. "He must have been crazy about you, Catherine," Lavian observed, pointedly avoiding the use of Izlude's name in front of the children.

"That's right!" Alicia chimed in. "When a man is crazy about a woman, he will do anything - and, I mean anything - to get her attention, no matter how silly or bone-headed it is."

Alma could not help but laugh at how the twins' assessment was right on the mark. More than that, however, it had helped ease her heavy heart that, even though the late knight blade had met Ramza's company as an enemy, none held that against Izlude's memory, Alma, or the child she carried. Even though none of them really knew Izlude, each knew how much their one-time foe had meant to Alma and, when they spoke of him, it was almost as though they were speaking not of one of the many Templars who'd sought their deaths, but of a departed friend and comrade whose memory was precious to them.

And, indeed, if not for a cruel whimsy of fate, Izlude might very well have been their friend and comrade in fact as well as sentiment.

And, Lavian and Alicia, being Lavian and Alicia, both clearly remembered the knight blade as being a remarkably handsome young man, even though they saw him only once at the battle at Orbonne Monestary before he'd kidnapped Alma and spirited her away to Riovanes. Alma had told several stories of her and Izlude's mutual seduction and, despite the tragic ending and even though her newfound friends only knew Izlude from the harrowing time they'd spent on the opposite sides of the battlefield, some had said they would have liked to have gotten to know the Izlude who might very well have joined their fight.

"You're right," Alma replied. "And, I feel that, if my child is a boy, he will likely come up with creative ways to get my attention when he wants it."

"Something like...THIS?" the voice of Rad rang out before a pair of arms coiled about each of the Murry twins.

Alma, well acquainted with such displays by now, merely rolled her eyes as Rad dragged both twins against his ebon clad chest and a pair of scoundrel's lips began trailing up and down a giggling Lavian's neck. Without missing a beat, Rad angled to do likewise with Alicia but, interestingly, his lips met hers instead.

More curious still, he did not draw back, but instead the pair lingered in their unexpected embrace for a moment longer, their tongues dancing back and forth across the threshold of their melded lips.

Alma, recalling the strange look of longing and indecision she'd seen cross the dark knight's face not so long ago, found herself wondering if the circus that was the trio's odd relationship might finally be drawing to a close.

Indeed, Rad came away from the kiss breathing hard...and promptly used what breath he could muster to share a kiss, shorter but still visibly probing, with Lavian.

Alma hardly needed to look to see Agrias' expression of disapproval at this display, but she couldn't help but flippantly ask "Why do I have the feeling my baby's first word will be 'incorrigible'?"

"I can believe it," the holy knight said dryly before turning to face the carousing trio. "You never tire of these games of yours, do you?"

Three heads shook in reply.

"What else can I say?" Rad asked rhetorically. "I love the broads, and I always have the best hand."

"Let me guess, the only reason you haven't also dragged in Manon and Charlotte is that you lack the arms?"

"Your rejoinders could use some work. Seriously, though, Manon has the makings of a real charmer. He's got a lot to learn, though. Reaching all the way up a long dress like that? Rookie move. Instead, you do...THIS!"

Without further preamble, Rad's quick hands blurred their way towards Alicia's breast and Lavian's hindquarters and he began to pinch, poke, and caress each in a fashion that, Alma suspected, was the stuff of many a good father's worst nightmares.

"You really have no boundaries, do you?" Agrias asked, more than a hint of displeasure in her tone. "I trust Lavian and Alicia to protect themselves if you cross the line. But, if you touch any of the children like that, you'll draw back a stump."

"Oh, you wound me!" Rad replied, and he almost sounded like he meant it. "I can assure you, I'll be right alongside Ramza when Rachel's boyfriends need a proper father/uncle hazing. As for Charlotte, well..."

His words trailed off as he pointed to the young girl who was still engrossed with sowing the seeds of a fine meal...

...and reaping the harvest just as quickly.

With the dexterity of a practiced thief and the table manners of a Warjilis dockhand, she was chopping bacon and throwing it into a quiche pan with one hand and using the other to shovel down the bacon she'd deemed 'overdone'.

"That bit about me drawing back a stump?" Rad continued, breaking the brief trance of morbid fascination that had settled over the women. "A guy's likely enough to lose a hand in there as-is."

As if to underscore the point, Charlotte then approached the oven where, unnoticed by the chattering adults, the rolls Agrias had deposited earlier were finished. Standing on her toes, and handling the unwieldy baking paddle with surprising balance, she began to carefully tip the paddle so that the rolls slid into the wicker basket Agrias had meant to deposit them in before Alma's gasp had caught her attention.

Just as one of the flaky domes passed her eye, she snatched it right out of the air, followed swiftly by two others, and promptly tore into each.

"Having been in her place way back when," Rad whispered to the ladies, "I can tell you that, if she really is shoving all that down after three days hungry, she'll be regretting it."

As was often the case when Rad spoke, Alma found herself rolling her eyes and shaking her head in mingled amusement and exasperation.

"Well, at least there's still plenty for the rest of us," she noted. "Why don't the rest of you start setting the table? I'll see if I can stop Charlotte from spoiling her breakfast...and her lunch."

As the small group dispersed, and Alma got in some practice making use of her maternal authority, she found that the lingering melancholy she felt at Izlude's passing, though no less a scar on her young heart, ached a bit less after the reminder that, whatever lay in the future, she would never face it alone.

Her future husband could not take Izlude's place in her heart, but if she found a man who could love her and her child and keep them well, perhaps her beloved's noble spirit could rest in peace.

The notion coaxed a smile, this one a smile of gratitude for what she'd had with Izlude and what she still had, that lit up her features like the dawn after too long and gloomy a night.

 **A/N: Ok, we're going to wrap up the part with Ramza/Alma and company here and shift the scene back to our adventuring knight blade,** Izlude **and his journey to find his lost love again. Sorry if I sound sappy, I'm just a sucker for romance, lol. :D**


	11. The Phantoms of Gollund

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello again to all our readers To make up for the slow update, we've posted not one but two chapters straight. This one covers Izlude's time in Gollund to earn his fortune to vie for our lovely heroine, Alma, aka 'Catherine Seymour' ;) Once again, I'd like to thank my co-writer and editor, Falchion1984 for his help in making this story possible

Amongst the people of southern Lesalia, including the once prestigious Tingel family, there was a most peculiar superstition, believed by many in other parts to be quite absurd...

...not that anyone would say so whilst within earshot of a collection of noble families best known for producing veteran knights with long swords and short tempers.

It was believed by some to be a bastardized cousin to the theory of the Butterfly Effect, which stated that, if a hurricane or other powerful storm broke out in one part of the country, then a butterfly had flapped its wings in an area some leagues distant several weeks earlier. This superstition, also believed to illustrate that small acts can have unlikely consequences elsewhere depending on the initial conditions, stated that a bout of sneezing with no obvious cause meant that, somewhere, the person in question was being gossiped about...

...which, considering Izlude Tingel was supposed to be dead, was not a reassuring thought.

"ACHOOO! Grrr... That's seven...and counting," he grumbled under his breath as he brought up an already frayed handkerchief to wipe at his reddening nose.

Izlude had no idea whether this superstition was true or not but, if it was, he desperately hoped that he was not the subject of discussion for anyone who might cause him trouble. Though he was reasonably sure that his masquerading as Damien Mitchell had been handled well enough, considering that he knew practically nothing of spycraft, the possibility that someone might see through his fumbling subterfuge yet weighed heavily on his mind. Still, with no way for him to verify that dread prospect either way, and suspecting that he would not have made it out of Dorter if his subterfuge wasn't at least passable, the knight blade thought it best not to dwell too much on the thought and to focus on his immediate goals.

 _Well, he mused_ , his irritation slipping away, _This consortium could've picked a worse place to do business._

The knight blade supposed he was being somewhat stingy with his praise. Undoubtedly, there was no better place in all of Ivalice for mining than in Gollund. Situated in the midst of a vast mountain range, rich with precious stones, metals, and even ancient relics from bygone eras, Gollund was widely regarded as the true treasury of Ivalice, a place to which the origins of every finely wrought sword and well cut gem could be traced.

And, if Gollund was Ivalice's treasury, than its citizens were the treasurers, the people who toiled beneath the earth and before glowing forges, tirelessly working to obtain, assess, and transform even the unlikeliest of nature's offerings into wonders of craftsmanship.

The people of Gollund were hardy folk, masters of their craft, and unafraid of hard labor...and, in a land like this, they had to be.

Apart from the sheer toil of mining, delving into the earth was also a hazardous affair. As the years rolled by, and well established shafts expanded deeper and deeper beneath the peaks, so too did the risk of miners being caught in cave-ins. No less deadly would be the oil lamps and torches used to grant illumination by which the miners did their work. If any were to fall, then the wooden ties supporting the tracks used to guide the carts of ore to the surface could catch fire, filling the shafts with clouds of choking smoke. Yet, conversely, allowing those torches and lambs to go out would leave the miners stranded in labyrinths of utter darkness where, like as not, they would become hopelessly lost and starve to death before they could be rescued.

And yet, for all that, Izlude could sense why people chose to live in such a hard and unforgiving land. Apart from the riches beneath the peaks, seemingly waiting to be discovered by men with the skill and persistence to earn fortunes by claiming them, there were other treasures which Gollund offered.

"Lovely view, isn't it, Nelly?" Izlude asked his mount, who gave an affirmative sounding "Wark!" in reply.

The knight blade had paused a moment, just a mile or so outside the city proper, and let his newly re-colored eyes take in the spectacle before him. For miles in all directions, majestic peaks, capped with glistening snow, rose to touch the sky. The sun, a rare sight given how wintry weather seemed to prevail year round amidst these peaks, rose high in an intensely blue sky, setting the ever-present snow to gleaming. Many of the peaks were bare rock, but others abounded with pine trees. Some of these were nearly as tall as Izlude himself while others would literally tower over him, and each lent a dry spicy scent to the brisk, icy air that could make one believe that they stood at the top of the world.

Amazed and awe struck, the knight blade forgot the torturous commotion in his sinuses...

"ACHOOO!"

...briefly.

"Well, that makes eight," he pointed out sourly. "Either eight people are speaking of me favorably, or four people really hate me right about now."

Despite his seeming flippancy, the knight blade found himself wondering just who might be so fascinated by him. For that matter, was their gossip about Izlude or his new persona? He could not say, for he had no idea just who, besides Alma, might be there to greet Izlude, rather than Damien, at his journey's end, nor did he have any way of knowing what questions the mysterious former wyvern knight might've left in his wake. After deciding there was nothing to be done for it, and letting out yet another sneeze, he made his way to the city of Gollund. As he drew near, the air become redolent with the pungent aromas of sweat and forge smoke, both of which served to underscore that, while this was a land where fortunes were made, the journey was not for the faint of heart. Gollund did not have nearly as much as Dorter to offer in terms of pleasure and entertainment, and the closest thing to luxury many of these people had was an evening spent in a soft chair by a roaring fire or, for those who'd brought their families along on their search for wealth, throwing snowballs with their children.

This simple but hardworking lifestyle was reflected in the town itself. The houses were constructed with practicality in mind and, in an often wintry climate, this could be summed up in the word 'warmth'. Thick pine planks, cut from the trees which grew in abundance on the mountains, allowed homes to be built seemingly for a pittance and, being a natural insulator, could hold the home's warmth in and keep the outdoors' cold out with equanimity. Sharply angled roofs, designed so that snow would slide right off instead of pile on until the roof caved in under the weight, were another feature that characterized both the dangers which guarded Gollund's wealth and the character of the people who sought those riches.

Hard lines and sharp angles.

Many of these houses were cluttered close to one another so that, if they were so inclined, neighbors in adjacent houses could reach through their windows and shake hands. Other features, which showed the rare, softer side of the town, included a snowman which had been built next to the town gate, one wooden arm at an upward angle as though greeting newcomers to this wintry land of hidden riches.

And, visitors were numerous, indeed, for it didn't take him long to spot a line of burly men, doubtless here seeking the same lucrative billet as the knight blade. After checking into another inn and leaving Nelly to the care of the inn's stable hands, Izlude joined his fellows awaiting entrance to the main office of the Ivalician Mining and Metalworking Consortium. Even after spending another three days on the road, the knight blade found himself feeling strangely refreshed. Perhaps it was the wondrous view offered as he journeyed up the peaks, or perhaps it was be invigorating effect of the icy, rarefied air of this town, or maybe it was the gratification of seeing that, though this was a cauldron of steel and sweat, the people who tended it remained unbroken by the horrors of the War of the Lions. Whatever the reason, rather than rest his feet at the inn, he promptly deflected any questions about his black hair, grey eyes, and pale skin by reiterating 'Damien's' Romandan heritage. At times, however, as Izlude sensed seemingly every eye in the city following him, he found himself wondering why the holy stone couldn't give him a more practical disguise. A newcomer he might be to spycraft, but he was fairly certain that the whole point of a disguise was to allow one to blend in with the rest of the population more easily. That his 'disguise' turned heads wherever he went seemed to fly in the face of that simple logic, but he supposed he should be grateful to have gotten as much assistance from the stone as he had so far. As much as Izlude prided himself on his resourcefulness, he knew he would have never gotten as far as he had without the power of the holy stone.

Giving the stone a discreet pat, and hoping its assistance and his luck would hold for a bit longer, he took his place at the end of the long line of applicants who had managed to reach the mining town before him. From what the Izlude could see, many of them appeared to be from other towns and villages surrounding Gollund. Others looked to have come from Dorter as well, for some of the eager, craggy faces he saw amongst the applicants were ones he recognized from the tavern of the inn where he stayed backed in the City of Merchants. Others still were faces he did not recall seeing before.

Clearly, Georg's glowing praise of the consortium seemed well founded, for Izlude could see several dozen men before him and, when he turned, saw that at least a dozen more had lined up behind him. Still, the line moved with remarkable speed and, soon enough, the knight blade found the consortium's main office, and his goal, drawing ever nearer.

The money he'd need to court 'Duchess Catherine' was near to hand, and the anticipation was setting his very nerves afire.

He was jolted from his reverie, however, when the heavy wooden door before him banged open. However, instead of being greeted by one of the consortium's leaders, Izlude beheld a young blond man, possibly a miner. The man's face seemed drained of color and his eyes were round with terror. After a moment spent staring into nothingness and heaving frantic breaths into his lungs, he ran past Izlude, nearly trampling the knight blade, and went tearing down the street as fast his legs would allow. Judging from the sack of coins in his hand, the miner appeared to have gone to the office to collect his pay, though Izlude found himself strongly suspecting that the miner would not be coming back. The knight blade, recalling the seemingly ludicrous salaries the consortium was offering, found himself quite puzzled as to what could cause a miner - who, by necessity, were stout-hearted folk - to bolt away from such a lucrative billet. And, judging by the chatter that reached his ears, several of the other applicants were wondering the same thing.

"Sir, wait!" a young brunette woman cried as she ran outside the office just in time to see the fleeing miner turn the corner of a nearby building, vanishing amidst the huddled structures of the mining town. After she realized the miner wasn't going to come back and listen, she sagged against one of the building's supports and mopped her brow. Though most of the men around him shrugged off the episode, Izlude could not help but notice that the woman's face, rather than flushed from the icy air, had gone deathly pale, and that the hand which wiped her brow was trembling. What's more, her breathing was harsh and ragged, as though she'd spent the better part of the day in a state of near panic. Sensing something amiss, Izlude stepped out of line and slowly approached the young woman.

"Excuse me, my lady, but what was that all about?" he asked.

The woman, apparently having failed to notice his approach, gave a yelp. After a moment, however, she seemed to calm herself, offered a visibly painted smile and let out a poor imitation of a shaky laugh. "Oh, nothing you need to concern yourself with, good sir. That miner just had a small accident and, as a result, he's expressed some...disinclination to continue working on this project. I tried to reassure him that everything will be alright, and that he would receive much better compensation if he stayed with us, but he insisted on collecting his final pay and leaving."

For a stretching second, Izlude puzzled over the woman's words, and he found them ringing hollow in his ears. Perhaps it was way the woman's smile seemed so forced and her laugh so shaky, as though she were desperately trying to hide a rising tide of panic behind a weak facade of calm. Maybe it was the recollection of the look of sheer terror on the miner's face, and the knight blade's ominous musings over just what could so frighten a man that he'd be willing to walk away from such a lucrative opportunity. Or, it might've been the belated realization that, judging from the chatter which had reached his ears, all the men currently gathered at the office were new applicants, as Izlude himself was. From what he knew about the consortium, and its remarkably generous wages, he was surprised that he had not seen any returning workers, nor did he see any who looked like experienced miners or smiths amongst his fellow applicants. In fact, those experienced miners and smiths he could spy milling in the streets seemed to be giving the guild's office a wide berth.

Izlude was startled by this revelation, and he had no idea what the truth behind these oddities might be, but it was obvious that something was wrong with the Ivalice Mining and Metalworking Consortium.

"Er... is something wrong, sir?" the young woman asked, her voice sounding even shakier than before.

"Oh, sorry about that," Izlude spluttered, thinking it best to try and deflect her puzzlement. "I am curious, however… are you the head of the Ivalice Mining and Metalworking Consortium? And, what is your name, my lady?"

Upon hearing Izlude's questions, the young woman spent a moment blinking in astonishment before she threw back her head and let out a, genuine, laugh. "Oh, goodness, no! I am but a humble bookkeeper. My name is Emily Rossum. What's yours, good sir?"

Truth be told, Izlude had guessed her answer even before she'd given it. Though Emily had the look of an intelligent and fastidious person, her earlier display suggested that she was high strung and fretful, which made her quite unlikely to be helming a mercantile enterprise hitherto unknown to Ivalice. But, the question had the desired effect of causing her to forget his strange, silent scrutiny from earlier.

"Damien Mitchell," he replied, this time without missing a beat. "Pleased to meet you, my lady. One of your representatives, Gilliam Ro, was in Dorter a few days ago. He told me about this new project your company is working on, and that you are in need of strong workers. Might I ask you to tell me more about it?"

"I would love to, kind sir, but it is not my place to do so. Why don't you and the others come to the office and speak with the head of our company? He will be happy to tell you all the details."

"Yes, of course," Izlude answered politely as he offered Emily his arm. "Shall we?"

"With pleasure, sir."

* * *

"And that, my friends, is the consortium's next goal," the company's head, Anthony Aldrich, thundered from the podium.

Nothing if not a talented showman... Izlude silently mused as he watched his new employer.

Aldrich was a burly man in his fifties who, despite his years, seemed possessed of the vim and vigor one would expect of a much younger man. His deep voice carried well over the crowd, and his animated tone and irrepressible energy quickly got the would-be miners wringing their hands in anticipation of the work ahead. All told, the room full of applicants numbered around eighty men, including Izlude himself, and all seemed entranced by the fiery pioneer who, they all hoped, would guide them to wealth and prosperity.

Yet, despite the nigh-contagious excitement Aldrich had spread through the crowd, Izlude's suspicion that something was wrong yet persisted.

"The task ahead of us will not be easy," Aldrich continued, though his words sounded less like a warning than they did a challenge. "The wars have bled dry the surface deposits of ore, so we will be going deep beneath the city of Gollund. Deeper, in fact, then we have ever gone before. The days will be long, and they will be hard. But, there are vast deposits of new, valuable ores down there which are urgently needed for the reconstruction of Ivalice's cities. There will be iron and steel that the finest smiths in Dorter would envy, there will be gemstones bigger than our fists and more brilliant than the sun, and there will be gold and silver by the cartload! We'll be going down there to retrieve it so that fields can be re-sown and homes rebuilt, so our children can be schooled and our elders can spend their waning years in comfort. In accomplishing this, we will play a pivotal role in making this a great country once again."

The applicants, caught up in Aldrich's enthusiasm, cheered deafeningly and, despite his lingering doubts, Izlude found himself joining in.

"We will be going further down than anybody else has even tried before. And, the further down we go, the colder, harder, and riskier it will be. But, when you start to wonder if it's worth it, remember this: our country is still going through a rough time and that ore will go a long way towards seeing her through to better days. Once that's done, our countrymen will have someone to thank. Make sure that 'someone' is you! That's no small burden, but anyone who is willing to shoulder it will come away with gold beyond counting and a place in history amongst those who made Ivalice a land where dreams come true."

This proclamation was met with another veritable eruption of applause, after which the applicants began to chatter excitingly amongst themselves. Izlude, impressed though he was by Aldrich's showmanship, still could not suppress the nagging feeling that something was amiss. Granted, he already knew the myriad risks in mining, though these would not deter him from his beloved Alma, and, for all his bombast, the head of the consortium had not downplayed these hazards. Nor was it the eerie feeling that, between those men present who were used to and unafraid of hard and potentially dangerous work and those who did not quite know what they were getting themselves into, the latter group seemed far more numerous.

A querying touch to the stone returned an odd pulsing, almost as though the stone was also contemplating these peculiarities. With Pisces offering no clues, Izlude gave a mental shrug. He knew that the risks of mining were considerable, but he was willing to risk anything to win Alma's hand. With no other likely prospects by which to obtain the funds he needed in time, and with his family's wealth now beyond his reach, he had no choice but to build a new fortune, and a new life, from whatever skills and inner resources he could muster.

And, if something sinister was afoot, all he could do was keep his eyes open.

"Excuse me, Mister Aldrich", Izlude asked as he raised his hand. "How long will this assignment be?"

"One week," Anthony answered. "And, after that, we will ship out the ore we find to other cities and anyone who wishes to stay for future projects is welcome to do so. Our headquarters includes an extensive dormitory for our workers. It's nothing fancy, but there are four sturdy walls, free food, and a warm bed waiting for you after a hard day's work."

Free food, housing, and excellent pay sounded, much like the rest of the consortium's offer of employment, almost too good to be true. Even though Izlude did not plan to stay in Gollund very long due to his plans to seek out his lost love, he found himself wondering if any clues as to the source of his strange unease might be found within the consortium's lodgings. The holy stone's quiet humming in his pocket had told him that he'd made the right choice coming here, for no other job would earn the knight blade the money he needed in so short a time. But, the stone also seemed to be hinting that the source of his inexplicable discomfiture was both real and important. Regardless, he planned to be flush with coin and in Lesalia before the Duchess of Lionel made her first public appearance. God only knew how many men would be there vying for her hand as well, and Izlude would be damned if, after returning from death itself, he let anyone else beat him to Alma.

Determined to go through with the stone's plan, Izlude asked "When do we start?"

Delighted with the knight blade's enthusiasm, the consortium's head smiled.

"Tomorrow morning. We start at dawn, so make sure you are up and ready to work by then. I will provide everything all of you need in order to make this project a success. All I need is your persistence and hard work. Dismissed!"

"Yes, sir!" the excited applicants cried in unison.

* * *

Later that night, as the sun vanished beneath the horizon and his hunger could no longer be held in abeyance, Izlude went to the inn's tavern. After checking up on Nelly, he was quite eager to have some dinner, as well see if some conversation with his future co-workers might lend some insight into the suspicion that yet curdled in his gut. Despite the hour, the tavern was abuzz with people chattering over platters of food and mugs of ale. Most of those who dwelt in this city of miners tended to dine later in the evening, as they were often called to prepare the mines for the workday before breakfast. And, given the generous pay Aldrich offered, Izlude didn't doubt for a minute that the consortium's head would expect every last man to be up before dawn and ready to work by sunrise. That in itself would pose no problem for Izlude, as he had done so nearly every day during his early and mid-teens while he was training to become a member of the Knights Templar. Like the head of the consortium, the High Confessor, as well as Vormav himself, also had high expectations of potential Templars, and these expectations were enforced with nary a care for age, gender, lineage, class, station, or creed. Izlude remembered how hard he and Meliadoul had worked to keep up with their father's rigorous training regimen and how, back when his soul had been his own, how proud he'd been when his children had ultimately shattered even his high expectations. Recalling this, Izlude felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth and reaffirmed his belief that, if he could pass the trials to be accepted into the Knights Templar, then he should be more than capable of handling difficult and dangerous mining work. And, while Izlude may have been born into a wealthy, noble family, he was still unafraid of getting his hands dirty should the need arise.

As the knight blade had expected, the tavern was crowded and lively as dozens of the newly hired workers were gorging themselves on the free food and drink. As the bartender had announced several times, the repast was on the house that evening, courtesy of the head of the Ivalice Mining and Metalworking Consortium, Anthony Aldrich. Though this raised still more unanswered questions, Izlude could not help a sense of nostalgia as he remembered how he and Justin had once gone to a similar establishment. It had been just after they'd reached their eighteenth year, and they'd been quite eager to celebrate both their newfound adulthood and their having won admittance into the order. The knight blade felt his eyes mist as he recalled the Knights Templar; how he'd venerated them, his father and older sister in particular, and how they had served laws, ideals, and principles superior even to kings. Unlike other orders of knights, acceptance into the Knights Templar was not determined by wealth, status, or the political influence of one's family, but by skill, valor, and absolute loyalty to the Church of Glabados and the High Confessor. None were above the law of the heavens, nor were any beneath its notice; not peasants, not merchants, not nobles, not even the king.

What's more, just as no unrighteous soul was permitted to escape the Templars, no righteous soul who wished to serve the order's cause was refused a chance to prove themselves. Roughly two-thirds of the order had been composed of people of common birth, including the late Weigraf Folles and Justin Timbel, Izlude's best friend, who was born into a humble family of carpenters who served the Tingel family. Though Justin's memory was still a treasure to Izlude, recalling Weigraf had served as a grim reminder of how the once noble order had so ignominiously met its end, subverted by evils far darker than even the most corrupt human's most depraved dreams.

Were those Templars who had died, ignorant of this corruption, been able to find peace in the afterlife? Had those who'd been singled out as vessels for the Lucavi been freed upon the destruction of their mortal forms? On both counts, Izlude hoped so.

Thinking about his fallen comrades made Izlude wonder just how many high-ranking Templars, aside from himself, had survived the War of the Lions, and whether the order was even still intact. He still had no real way of knowing if Meliadoul was still alive, as he'd yet to have any visions of what befell her after her apparent participation in Alma's rescue from the Lucavi, and his silent queries to the stone yielded only what felt like urgings to be patient. Though Izlude was next in line to command the Templars, his 'death' would make Meliadoul the best candidate, if she were still alive. However, after what demonkind had done to the order, it seemed likely that the history of the Knights Templar had drawn to a close. The knight blade could only assume that any surviving lower-ranking Templars had probably left the order to start new lives and find a place for themselves in the new Kingdom of Ivalice, just as he himself was doing right now.

Would the newly formed Order of the Chimera fill the void, acting as a force to uphold those laws to which even monarchs must bow? Perhaps, though the knight blade found himself second guessing what such a powerful force might be used for with the cunning and ruthless Delita at the helm of Ivalice.

Izlude was startled out of his thoughts when he heard someone very nearly collapse onto the bar stool right next to him and call in a slurred, bitter voice for a beer.

Even before the stone had begun to tremble in his pocket, Izlude turned to see a young man absently toss the bartender a coin after taking his drink. At the offer of food, however, his already forbidding expression soured further and he grunted a refusal.

"Why did you pay for your drink and refuse the food, my friend?" the knight blade asked, his curiosity piqued. "It was free, courtesy of Mister Aldrich."

"Not if you ain't working for him no more, it isn't," The young man snorted as he took a long draft from his mug. Upon closer inspection, Izlude recognized him as the same man who'd fled, seemingly in terror, from the consortium's office earlier that day.

"Wait a minute, I remember you! Weren't you that guy who ran from the company's main office this morning?" he blurted out in surprise.

The young man, who looked somewhat shaken at having been identified, nearly dropped his mug and quickly clapped a hand over Izlude's mouth to quiet him.

"SHH!" he hissed. "Not so loud, will ya?"

"But, why?" Izlude asked, dropping his voice to a whisper as he gently pried the other man's hand from his mouth.

The young man sighed. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised that you don't know."

"Know what?"

"Let me guess, one of the consortium's representatives showed up in your town and offered you this mining job. Generous pay, free room and board, be part of history and all that, right?"

As the young miner spoke, Izlude could sense the bitterness he'd noticed earlier deepen until it became a palpable aura of virulent enmity that had him wondering if that acrimonious tongue might set off a brawl.

"Yes, that's correct," Izlude replied, forcefully gesturing for the man to keep his voice down.

"I thought so," the man replied, his hostility seeming to cool into melancholy. "Did this representative also tell you of the strange incidents that have been going on in the mines beneath Gollund of late?"

The Pisces stone vibrated against Izlude's leg, but he hardly needed the confirmation of what he'd suspected, nor the encouragement to delve deeper into this discovery. If there was something foul afoot in the consortium, he may have finally stumbled across some clue. And, if it might be something that could threaten his plans to reunite with Alma, then any information he could discover might prove priceless.

"What incidents?" he asked, unable to keep a hint of urgency from his tone. "And for that matter, who are you?

"My name is Nicholas Rof," the man responded, a snort of derision punctuating his words. "Like you, I heard about this great offer and, like an idiot, I signed up the first chance I got. After I lost my home during the floods in Gallione, I spent the whole war panhandling, scavenging through the garbage for food, and hating myself for how low I'd sunk. And, in all that time, I wanted to make something more of myself, to find some way to a better life."

"An understandable sentiment, and it sounds like you tried to achieve it."

"Yeah, for all the good it did me. All I ended up doing was trading one nightmare for another."

"What do you mean?"

Rof took a quick look around to make sure no one else was listening in on his conversation with the disguised knight blade before answering.

"In the last few weeks, previous mining crews of the consortium, including myself, have been hearing strange voices coming from deep within the coal shafts. Not only that, we have also felt these icy drafts that chilled our very blood, and while we were much too far below ground for it to be coming from the surface, no less. What's more, miners had been talking about their hair getting pulled and, when they turned around, no one was there. Oh, sure, these all sounded foolish enough, but then things got worse when Gareth, one of the miners I worked with, sees this pickaxe suddenly come hurtling straight at him. He dodges, but he doesn't see anybody in the direction it came from. Then, he turns around and that same pickaxe is flying at him again! I didn't see that, mind you, but I did see a small rock lift itself out of the gravel and fly into my face as I was skirting the edge of a pit. Nearly toppled in and fell to my death! After hearing more and more stories like what I just told you, I decided that enough was enough and went to the office to demand my final pay. I want to be well away from this job - this whole city, in fact - before whatever's down there decides to follow me."

Izlude could barely contain his shock as he heard this, but tried his best to remain calm. Being a veteran knight, he had fought undead before and he knew they could be quite dangerous. If the mines were haunted, it would explain why there were no returning workers amongst tonight's revelers, as well as the frantic behavior of both Rof and Emily which he'd spied earlier.

It also cast Aldrich's generous offer and his fiery speeches in a new and troubling light.

"Are… are you saying the mine is haunted?" he asked, though he'd already guessed as much.

"You're damn straight I am!" Rof spat.

"And, you say there have been others who've been attacked by these phantoms?

"Yeah. The others I worked with have already wised up and quit; I was just too stupid and greedy to know they'd made the right move. But now, even I have had enough. Were you wise, you would have nothing more to do with this company or their crazy projects!"

"Surely somebody has brought this to Aldrich's attention?"

That question brought a laugh to Rof's lips, but there wasn't a drop of mirth in it. Instead, it was a bitter chortling that caused the raucous activity around them to falter for a moment before it hesitantly swung back into motion.

"Aldrich would never back down back down from a project this important," Rof pointed out, sneering. "Not after he's pretty much put his whole future on the line."

That last sentence caused the memory of the consortium's high strung bookkeeper to vault to the forefront of Izlude's mind. And, with the stone giving an urgent gyration in his pocket, he suspected that, whatever Rof was hinting at, it was pivotal information.

"Aldrich learned about this particular shaft some time ago, back during the wars," Rof went on. "But, it wasn't until now that he's been able to act upon it. I'm sure he gave you the speech about cartloads of gold and gems as big as your fist? Well, it's true. I managed to find out that much before I decided I liked breathing more than I liked getting rich. Anyway, he wanted to make sure the consortium got to it before anybody else could. And, he pulled it off; but, he had to, literally, bet everything he had."

"That's quite a gamble."

"And, it would pay five gil for every one that he spent if he could get this project back on track. Right now, with so many workers being scared off and the mining all but completely stalled, the whole thing's about to blow up in his face. Don't believe me? Just ask Emily."

"The consortium's bookkeeper?"

"She's my cousin. When she tried to talk me out of leaving, she told me that the project would fail if things didn't turn around soon. Aldrich is overextended on several loans, his gil reserves will run dry by the end of the month, and there are rumors that he's about to lose the contract. If that happens, and this profit bomb turns out to be a dud, then Aldrich will go belly up, and the whole consortium will get dragged down with him. Dozens, maybe hundreds of jobs, pensions for workers who stay on for years, death benefits for the families of workers who are lost in the line of duty, returns for his investors, the inheritance for his grandkids, and his workers' grandkids. This project stays in the doldrums for another month or so, and all that will be gone."

Following this pronouncement, Rof turned away and began trying to vanish into this bottom of his mug. Izlude, by contrast, sat stone sober, rocked by what he had heard...

...and also by yet another reminder of the last ignominious years of the Knights Templar.

In order to enflame the people of Ivalice against the corrupt monarchy and their silk-clad toadies, the High Confessor and the Templars had played quite a hand in, subtly, exacerbating the poverty and turmoil which had so characterized Ivalice both immediately before and during the War of the Lions. How many people, Izlude found himself wondering, had found themselves in the same position Rof so poignantly described as a result?

Izlude had no idea. In truth, he'd tried not to think about it at the time, to rationalize that it served a higher purpose which would, at its completion, see recompense given to those who'd had the misfortune of suffering harm in order for the greater good to be served.

Now, however, Rof's pronouncement, and the grim image it painted, loomed large in his mind.

For a long, long moment, the knight blade found himself wondering what to do. Though he knew that this information suggested that staying on with the consortium likely would not be wise, and that the burgeoning crisis here was not his concern, his conscience railed against the notion of once more turning a blind eye when he had the chance to prevent such suffering.

"Oh, don't tell me you're thinking of sticking around!" Rof grumbled, rising from his seat. "I cannot stop you if you choose to do that, my friend. But, for your sake, I hope you will heed my words. If not, then God help you. That is all I have left to say; good-bye!"

Before Izlude could question him further, Nicholas stalked out of the tavern as if he could not leave the place fast enough. Left alone amongst the carousers, Izlude pondered what to make of this revelation. That this seeming golden goose's eggs were guarded by specters could pose a dire threat to Izlude's plans, not to mention his health. He still feared that delving into a haunted mine shaft would mean putting his hopes of reuniting with Alma at risk. And yet, no less compelling was the insistent voice of his conscience which warned that, having unwittingly been a party to demonkind's infiltration of Ivalice, his guilt was already a weighty enough burden.

Having fought undead before, could he prevail against the specters that haunted the mine?

If not, his second and final journey into the afterlife would come about with his desperately sought reunion with Alma being yet another in an already lengthy list of might-have-beens.

Yet, if he turned away now, even if he could find the money he needed elsewhere, how could he bear having turned away from people in need when his actions might've prevented much suffering?

For a moment, he almost quailed under the weight of this dilemma until, at the last, he rallied himself and placed his hand over the concealed holy stone.

 _What do you think?_ he silently asked, suspecting that there was no point in hiding the weight of his dilemma from the stone. _Should I take this job or not? I would like to help these people, but can I afford the_ _risk?_

A soft humming, suffused with the coolly familiar sensation of his sword's hilt held firmly in his hands, was the Pieces stone's reply…

* * *

Suspecting that the stone's reply meant that it believed he ought to try and save the consortium, Izlude swallowed a hurried meal and then pondered how best to go about the coming exorcism. On the latter count, however, he came away having made little progress. With Rof's departure, and assuming the embittered miner was telling the truth, he no longer had any witnesses to the haunting which he might question. Blindly asking around was not an option either, as he might end up either looking the fool to his fellow miners or driving them into a panic, neither of which was likely to help anyone. And, going to either Aldrich or Emily with his suspicions might see his employment come to an abrupt end. What's more, the closest thing he had to a clue was Rof's report of being assailed near a pit whose lip was covered in gravel, and there were likely to be several of those in any given shaft. However, even learning of the strange incidents in the mines beneath Gollund was not enough to stave off the utter exhaustion which had settled over the knight blade after his ten days of hard travel from Kohlingan to Dorter and then to Gollund, especially since he'd allowed himself only a single night to eat at a proper table and sleep in a comfortable bed. That he'd emerged from that journey only to find a week of hard labor and lurking threats at the end had, rather than cause him a restless night, left him eager to seek his bedding. Izlude wasn't sure if he should consider himself lucky that he'd sensed something was amiss with the consortium, or that he'd ran into someone who was willing to warn him of the haunting of the mine while leaving the other miners completely in the dark.

And, for that matter, whether if it was truly luck or by the influence of the holy stone.

The knight blade did not have much time to ponder such thoughts; he fell asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow. Despite Aldrich's offer of free housing in the consortium's dormitory, Izlude thought that his myriad secrets would be safer if he stayed at a nearby inn. Given the peculiar touches the holy stone had given his new face, not to mention his carrying such oddments as 'Catherine Seymour's' portrait and the holy stone itself, Izlude did not relish the idea of would-be dorm mates asking probing questions.

Even though Izlude took to bed early and had eight full hours of sleep, he still felt as though dawn had come far too soon when he awoke shortly before sunrise. Feeling nearly as much the walking dead as his future quarry, he absently breakfasted on fresh bread and piping hot soup before heading back to the consortium's main office. As soon as he arrived, the knight blade noticed an even larger crowd then he remembered from the day before, which lent further credence to Rof's story. Back in Dorter, Gilliam told him that the company could only take so many applicants, yet every single person who arrived at the office yesterday seeking the new mining job was present. Not only did Aldrich literally hire everyone he could find, regardless of previous mining experience or the lack thereof - which suggested he was, indeed, desperate to save the investment upon which he'd staked his very future - but it seemed he'd also hired an additional twenty people who showed up almost literally at the last minute. Upon closer inspection, however, the still drowsy Izlude was shocked to wakefulness when he realized that the newly arrived miners were Georg and his daughter, Gerde, as well as the rest of their rag-tag group of friends who called themselves the Boulder Devils.

"Georg! Gerde! I didn't see you yesterday, so I thought you weren't going to come!" Izlude exclaimed as he approached his newfound friends.

The father and daughter pair broke into a smile when they saw the fascinating raven-haired young man whom they drank under the table back in Dorter.

"Sir Damien!" Gerde cried as she pulled the disguised knight blade into a hug that squeezed the air from his lungs. "So, you did decide to come after all! You seemed to have doubts the last time I saw you, so I wasn't sure if you would be interested in taking this job. But, I'm glad you did!"

"Aye…so good to see you again, my young friend," Georg agreed as he placed a hand over his mouth to suppress a yawn. "It looks like we'll be working together in the upcoming week, which should make for a more interesting experience."

"Yes, but when did you arrive in Gollund?" Izlude asked curiously. "You said you were definitely interested in this job, so I assumed you would be here before me."

"We arrived around midnight yesterday. As for why we were late, well, we had to stay in Dorter for one more day. Father might've managed to drink you under the table, but he met his match later that same night," Gerde answered as she shot her father a look of annoyance, hinting that this wasn't the first time the Boulder Devils had been delayed because of their leader's fondness for strong drink.

Ignoring his daughter's henpecking, Georg turned to Izlude. "We arrived after Aldrich had already led his workers in their customary chest thumping. Probably for the best, since my head was pounding enough already. Still, Mister Aldrich didn't much object when I knocked on his front door and told him we wanted in. I might've been knocking a bit too loud for his tastes...and his neighbors', for that matter. But, my crew and I have done good work for him before, so he didn't mind. In fact, he was very happy that we were willing to offer our services to him again."

Seeing this as an opportunity to glean more information about the strange events Nicholas spoke of in the mines beneath the town, Izlude asked "How did the company's previous projects go? When was the last time you worked for Mister Aldrich?"

"About three months ago, when the company first started. The first project was fairly easy, just two weeks spent mining ore near the surface of the western side of Gollund."

Izlude was sorely tempted to ask if they had noticed anything unusual, but ultimately decided to hold his tongue. Not many specters would venture so close to the sunlight in order to strike at the living, and he did not want to arouse the suspicions of his new friends unnecessarily. Besides, from what Nicholas told him, the strange incidents in the mines started only a few weeks ago, long after the Boulder Devils had completed their first assignment with the Ivalice Mining and Metalworking Consortium. Between that, and having no reason to believe there was more than one mine presently haunted, it was highly unlikely that Georg, Gerde, and the rest of their crew would know anything useful. And, though Izlude found himself struggling with whether or not to tell them what he learned from the young man he met at the bar the night before, he ultimately decided to keep silent on the matter. If they had weathered the poverty and chaos of the War of the Lions, then it stood to reason that Georg, Gerde, and their friends were not easily frightened, and that was assuming they didn't dismiss Nicholas's claims as drunken ramblings. If what the former consortium miner claimed was true, they would all find out soon enough.

Hopefully, by then, Izlude would have some idea of what to do about it.

"I see," Izlude said simply. "In any case, I'm glad you are all here. I don't know anyone in Gollund, and it would be nice to have some familiar faces around for once."

Georg smiled and clapped a hand to Izlude's shoulder "The feeling is mutual, son."

* * *

Though Izlude kept his eyes and ears open for even the faintest hint of anything untoward, his first day amongst the consortium's ranks passed without incident. Not long after meeting with the Boulder Devils, Izlude and his fellow miners were bustled to a storehouse near the mine shaft entrance where each miner was searched for any prohibited items and then given a dark blue work uniform with the consortium's insignia sewn over the right front shirt, along with a helmet, a broad tool belt, and a pair of black steel-toed boots. In addition to the uniforms, the company also provided such tools as pickaxes, shovels, small lanterns, flasks of oil, water skins, and packets of jerky. Gerde, who had worked for the consortium before, commented on how much thicker the new uniforms seemed in comparison to those which had been in use some months prior, and Izlude harkened back to Aldrich's warning that this expedition would take the miners deeper than any previous venture. Apparently, this was true, which meant that the mines would grow colder as they delved deeper and deeper beneath the town. Still, between the hard work and his own hunt for the mine's ghosts, Izlude suspected he would have no trouble keeping warm.

The knight blade had hoped that his hunt would end quickly, but the first three days and nights went by without incident. Izlude and the rest of the new mining crew got up every morning, roughly an hour before sunrise, and would quickly change and eat breakfast before heading for the mines. Afterward, they would enter the dark labyrinth beneath the peaks where they would toil until sunset. Wondering what might happen if the ghosts remained unfound after he'd collected his pay, Izlude decided to make what use he could of his meager knowledge of spycraft. After their shifts were over, the miners would gather in the nearby taverns for dinner, where they would share gossip and stories of their homes and families. The knight blade took advantage of this to better hone 'Damien Mitchell's' back-story, pointedly adding a few anecdotes of fighting undead in the haunted forest of the Yuguo near his 'former hometown' of Yardow alongside other Wyvern knights.

With luck, anyone who stumbled across evidence that the mine was haunted would come to him and, in so doing, allow him to confront and exorcise the spirits which threatened the livelihoods of the living.

Though the accommodations of the dormitory were certainly appealing to most of his fellow miners, the knight blade kept his own room at the local inn. His own funds were quite scarce by then, but he feared that bedding down anywhere less private might lead to some pointed questions about his rather strange luggage.

As Izlude had expected, mining was indeed hard work. Apart from the sheer amount of hard physical labor, Georg and his crew, the only veteran miners who seemed willing to come within a mile of the consortium, had used what little downtime the miners had to drill them in how to handle an emergency. These included tracing chalk sigils on the walls - so that, should the mine need to be evacuated, everyone would know which direction to go in order to reach the surface - as well as techniques for swinging the pickaxe so that the impact broke the rock rather than the miner's arms, and working to develop the miners' ability to see in low light so that they did not use too much lantern oil and run out too quickly. During this time, Izlude learned what he could about Aldrich himself. Apart from being a mercantile pioneer and a family man, he was also apparently a man of considerable courage. He had served as a caravan master during the Fifty Years War, ferrying supplies to the front and, when legions of Ordallians stood between him and Ivalice's besieged armies, he'd taken it upon himself to guide his laden wagons through a dangerous mountain pass, literally squeezing between the Ordallian lines, to reach the trapped Ivalicians. This had allowed the Ivalicians to withstand the siege, saving countless lives and making Aldrich a hero.

Like many a lowborn hero of the Fifty Years War, however, his bravery had gone unnoticed by either the royal family or the dukes who'd helmed the white and black lions...

...by contrast, however, King Delita had personally decorated Aldrich within one week of taking the throne.

Perhaps such an act was simply Delita consolidating his power, by so publically rectifying a slight committed against those of humble origins by the people whose downfall he'd orchestrated. Or, maybe Delita had come to believe what his own rise to power had said to the masses, and that the days when ones birth was ones fate had drawn to a close and now, whether highborn or low, anyone possessed of the wits and will to pursue a better lot in life could succeed.

'The Ivalician Dream', one of the miners Izlude overheard mentioned King Delita calling it.

Whether Delita was engaged in political posturing or whether he'd truly wanted others to follow his lead and dare to reach beyond what lay within their birth and station, he'd certainly put a great deal of effort into spreading his message. According to rumors which had leaked into the camp, he was planning a monument dedicated to other unsung heroes of the Fifty Years War, including, to everyone's astonishment, the Dead Men...the peasant fighting force who later became the infamous Corpse Brigade.

That Delita was willing to posthumously honor the service of the same people who were, at least partially, responsible for his sister's death had astonished many and impressed the rest. Izlude had little time to contemplate the meaning and motives behind the rising star of Delita, but he had studied Aldrich's story at length and found his respect for the man growing by leaps and bounds.

The head of the consortium might be a bit too brave and ambitious for his own good but, in peace and war alike, he had dedicated himself to helping better the lives of those who depended on him, often at great risk to himself.

He did not deserve to be made a pauper by a gaggle of recalcitrant phantasms.

As the evening wore on, the knight blade was eager to retire to his room and soak his aching muscles in a long, hot bath. Once the pains of a day's toil had been soothed, he typically spent what little time remained to him gazing at the portrait of his love, Alma, the woman for whom he was toiling in the mines of Gollund like a common-born laborer instead of the nobleman he was.

Much to his surprise, however, not only was he pursuing this strange avenue to reach his love, but he was succeeding at it. He'd taken to both his lessons from Georg and his duties with dedication and, toilsome though it was, he liked to think that his penance for the harm he'd unwittingly done under Hashmalum's orders was a burden he could, in good time, repay in full.

The other half of 'The Ivalician Dream', it appeared, was second chances.

Here he was, a high-ranking Templar and nobleman who had lost everything because he realized too late that his order had been corrupted by evil, having had life breathed back into his lungs and been given a chance to rebuild his fortune as well as a new life, and to vie for the hand of the woman he loved, who masqueraded as the beautiful Duchess of Lionel but a few leagues distant. Even after a long day's work, Izlude could not help but smile whenever he saw Alma's lovely face staring back at him. So life-like was the portrait that, foolish though it sounded, the knight blade felt tempted to kiss it before he retired, but he refrained from doing so to avoid ruining the paint. After he was satisfied, Izlude would carefully store the portrait away and sleep like a stone until the next morning, all the while dreaming of being with his love again…

* * *

The first three days and nights, despite the aches and pains of the hard work and the ever present danger of laboring beneath many tons of solid rock, came and went quickly. Izlude worked hard alongside his fellow miners, several of which he now called friends, and had even discovered a dozen methods by which to escape matching drinks with Georg...

...methods which did not work, that is.

Still, though he pursued his lines of inquiry as best he could without raising awkward questions, he had yet to hear of so much as one incident in the Gollund mines which might be attributable to Rof's ghosts. Izlude began to wonder if Nicholas's claims about the place being haunted were, indeed, just drunken ramblings, or simply some trick of the senses, wrought by a joining of the dancing torchlight in the dark and a fevered imagination. Even without the stone's cool, admonishing pulse, that theory seemed unlikely. If the supposed haunting was not real, then why, aside from the Boulder Devils, did the previous mining crews all quit without any returning for new projects?

On the fourth day, the knight blade finally had his answer. As the workday began, he and his fellow miners went down a shaft which, according to the gossip he'd heard, had gone largely untouched. Even better, one of the miners pulled him aside and whispered that he'd felt a chill wind blowing all around him as he had passed a deep pit during the previous shift.

Such should have been impossible, given that they were well over a mile beneath the surface, but Izlude suspected the truth at once.

If that pit was the same one Rof had mentioned, perhaps it lead to the epicenter of the spectral activity in the mine.

Promising to look into it, he quickly ascertained the best path to the pit and began planning how best to combat the ghostly menace within...

...none of those plans, however, had included Georg, Gerde, and several others already being present when he arrived or, more to the point, they're still being there when the first sign that he was on the right track revealed itself.

RRRRRRAAAAAWWWWRRRRR!

"What was that?!" Gerde exclaimed, whirling and brandishing her pickaxe like a weapon.

The strange sound - which, as Rof reported, could indeed chill the blood of lesser men - had come from within the pit. The knight blade had hoped that the sound would convince the others to leave so that he could investigate undisturbed, but the neither Georg nor Gerde looked like they were going anywhere. Still, small consolation though it was, the knight blade peered around and noticed the other miners were also startled and had begun to whisper amongst themselves as well, confirming his guess that it wasn't his or Gerde's imagination and he had come to the right place.

"I'm not sure…," he said, pondering how best to get the miners out of area without causing a panic. "I think I'd best take a closer look. Maybe the rest of you ought to-"

Before he could finish his sentence, another gust of wind that was not wind howled out from the darkness, becoming a high pitched keening that had everyone clapping their hands to their ears. Then, just as suddenly as the shrieking began, it ended...only to be replaced by voices.

_Stay away!_

_Don't come any closer!_

_Begone from here!_

"Did you hear that!?" Gerde hissed as her eyes grew wide, though her expression revealed more surprise then actual fear.

Izlude nodded, idly hoping that Gerde still knew how to fight after leaving the Nanten, as he answered in a low voice "Yes…and, from the looks of everyone else here, I'm sure they did too."

Gerde gave the knight blade a sidelong glance, and Izlude found himself thinking she already suspected that he knew more than he was letting on. The young woman was about to question Izlude further when a sudden outburst drew their eyes. One of the miners was slumped on the floor in a daze, a corona of coal dust staining his forehead. Already suspecting what this might entail, Izlude whirled to see small rocks, lumps of coal, and tools suddenly being lifted into the air, as if by some invisible force, and hurtling themselves towards everyone in their section of the mine.

Before Gerde could say a word, she heard Izlude yell "LOOK OUT!" as he quickly grabbed and pulled her to the ground. An instant later, a shovel hurtled past them, whistling through the air barely a hand span above their heads, and smashed into splinters against the far wall of the mine. Had the knight blade not gotten her out of the way, Gerde's skull might have been caved in. Before the pair could regain their feet, however, they heard the other miners screaming as they desperately sought cover from the hail of detritus or get out of the mine as fast as they possibly could.

Over the frightened screams of the other miners, Izlude and Gerde both heard a deep male voice frantically calling their names.

"Gerde! Damien!" Izlude recognized it as the voice of his partner's father, Georg, who was desperately trying to fight his way through the mass of fleeing miners. The normally bombastic man's eyes were round with terror and, when Izlude glanced behind him, he saw that it was more than fear for his daughter that had him so alarmed.

All about the pit, stones and tools were being wrenched into the air by unseen spectral hands for a renewed assault.

"Over here, father!" Gerde shouted. "Please, get down and take cover!" But, her pleas seemed to have fallen on deaf ears, for the grizzled miner was not to be dissuaded from charging to the defense of his only daughter.

Whatever ghostly force had guided the hail of detritus had, apparently, singled out Georg as the most immediate threat to whatever it sought to protect, for one improvised missile after another whistled through the air to pelt the grizzled miner. One missed his head by a hairsbreadth while another rebounded off of his shoulder, yet Georg brushed off the pain just as surely as he swatted aside the flying detritus. Though Gerde was screaming at her father to take cover, Izlude shifted his own body to shield her from any stray projectiles and held her in a grip of iron, lest the unseen specters behind the bombardment pulverize her.

Though holding the frantic former Nanten was occupying most of his attention, the knight blade feared that the sheer weight of the assault would crush the life from Georg. But, the grizzled miner was a man of iron, tempered by the hardships of war and turmoil and bolstered by the far greater strength known only to a parent defending their child. Though he was bruised and bleeding by the time he reached them, the hailstorm of tools and rocks had ceased, the specters' ammunition having been pounded to dust or smashed to splinters in their fevered but futile bombardment.

"Thank you so...much for protecting...my daughter...!" the older man, now propping himself up against the wall, cried in a hoarse voice as he took one more shuddering step and pitched forward, landing in a heap before Izlude and Gerde.

Gerde tore free of Izlude's grip and scrambled over to her father's side. Between her and the knight blade, they hurriedly examined the grizzled miner. Izlude could feel a cold sweat bespangling his brow as he heard Georg's breathing become thin rasping, but a quick glance under the man's shirt eased a sigh of relief from his lips.

A determined salvo of rocks had badly bruised a number of Georg's ribs, which explained the shallow breathing, but none were broken and none of the cuts he'd collected were deep enough to cause him any serious harm.

"Are you...alright, Sir Damien?" Georg rasped. "I feared...my girl would...be smashed to...powder trying to... reach me. I owe you...a debt of...gratitude..."

Gerde had looked about to argue the point, either that Izlude had done her a service or that she'd needed it, but her expression softened as the import of her father's words sank in.

"We owe him, father" she corrected as she eased her father into a sitting position.

Izlude, surprised at how profoundly relieved he felt knowing that Georg was not seriously hurt, had been about to brush aside the praise when the trio heard the sounds of heavy footsteps charging in their direction. And, sure enough, it was the rest of the Boulder Devils who came rushing in to aid their leader.

"What are you-?!" Georg gasped out before his words degenerated into a fit of coughing. "I thought I...told you all to...go above ground!"

"You think after all we've been through that we'd abandon our own?" one of his crew, a heavy set man with a forked beard, asked, almost incredulously. "Not a chance! Besides, once all that commotion started, there was no going anywhere. The other miners were all bolting past our section, screaming at the top of their lungs! They looked to have had the daylights scared out of them, and not one of them would stay put long enough to tell us what was going on. So, we hunkered down until they passed and came to see for ourselves."

Georg, apparently used to his orders being treated with less-than-absolute deference, blew out an aggravated sigh that promptly turned into more coughing.

"He only has some bruised ribs, but you'd best get him to a healer," Izlude advised, moving to help Georg to his feet.

The knight blade had been hoping the Boulder Devils would clear the chamber, thus allowing him to investigate what he suspected was the epicenter of the mine's spectral activity. But, Georg shrugged off his grasp and Izlude suddenly realized that every pair of eyes had fixed upon him.

"Come to think of it, what did happened?" asked another crewmember, a lithe woman with a line of stitching where one eye should've been. "It's gone quiet again all of a sudden."

Izlude, not sure how to answer but suspecting that his meager talents in deflecting questions would avail him not, remained quiet. Though he knew the Boulder Devils were not people who scared easily, he was reluctant to risk frightening his friends by revealing what he had learned from Nicholas in the tavern three nights ago. He had hoped that Georg's persistent coughing would force the Boulder Devils to let the matter lie while they carried their leader to the surface but, unfortunately, Gerde was more perceptive then he thought.

"Damien…," she intoned, her voice becoming harsh, "What just happened here? You know something, do you?"

The knight blade was silent as his eyes strayed in the direction of the pit.

"It seems that whatever that was started when the area around that pit got too crowded," Izlude answered as his hand wandered to the pocket which held the holy stone. "Someone, or something, is down there, and does not want to be disturbed."

"What do you...mean, Damien...?" Georg asked curiously. Once more, the knight blade felt every pair of eyes alight upon him, as if expecting him to answer. And, the sight of Georg's battered condition, not to mention the thought of how easily it could've been much worse, left him sorely tempted to confess all. At the last, however, Izlude mustered his reserve and held his tongue. Instead, he pulled his lantern free of his belt, ignited it, and approached the pit. The gravel crunched under his feet as he leaned over the precipice and saw only blackness below. Shrugging, he turned and stumbled as something caught his foot. Izlude flailed for balance, all too aware of the bottomless chasm so near to hand, and managed to pitch himself towards safety...

...only to discover a length of almost buried metal beneath him.

Digging with his hands, he cleared away enough of the gravel to discover a rusted, long forgotten section of rail buried beneath. Further work revealed that the rusted rail swept towards the chasm, where it ended in a pair of jagged points just over the edge.

"It's not over, it's across," he mused aloud. "Whatever's going on here, it has something to do with whatever's on the other side of this pit!" he affirmed, pointing towards the shadowy mass beyond.

And, as he did so, the voices spoke up again.

_Leave! Leave now!_

Izlude ignored the warning, instead mulling over how to get across the wide chasm. Though the tracks had clearly once spanned it, these had long since fallen away. And, the gloom which enshrouded where the far side should be was so deep that he could not even tell where the tracks had once led, let alone whether or not he could make the jump across. He seethed with frustration, but this was forgotten when he heard a sudden flurry of activity behind him. He turned and, to his astonishment, saw that the Boulder Devils had unlocked and thrown open several of the storerooms in the chamber and were pulling free lengths of rail and sets of joints, hauling them towards the chasm.

"Er...," Izlude blurted, dumbly. "What are you doing?"

"Same thing as you, I'd imagine," Gerde replied smugly. "Investigating."

Izlude's perplexity must've shown as the other Boulder Devils began fitting the rail pieces together and hammering on the joints to hold them in place, for the former Nanten sighed melodramatically.

"You need a way across, and I owe you a debt," she said simply. "Once we have a long enough rail put together, you can use it as a bridge."

"And, nothing sours...the ale like...an unpaid debt," Georg choked out from he was being tended by a female white mage whose long wavy hair had long since gone grey. "Go to it...you lot. And, Damien, I...never forget a...good turn. After all, that..."

"Deserves a drink, yeah, I know," Izlude replied, unable to keep a smile from lighting his features.

Topsy turvy his world might have become since adopting the persona of Damien Mitchell, but it had been worth it to meet such people as Georg, Gerde, Aldrich, Sir Alian, and the Fredericks.

Perhaps, if he accomplished what he set out to do, he might repay a measure of their kindness.

Once the lengths of rail were assembled, several Boulder Devils lifted it and, after carefully pitching it up and down, they managed to discern the far side of the cavern. Setting their burden down, and after seeing that it remained stable, they built two more identical lengths and lay them alongside the first, allowing an easy crossing. Izlude gave his thanks and was partway across when a sudden outburst from Georg drew him up short.

"Wait, where are...you going?" the grizzled miner demanded hoarsely.

Craning his neck, Izlude saw that Gerde had joined him on the makeshift bridge.

"To investigate, same as him," she answered simply, pointing at the knight blade.

Georg cursed under his breath and looked about ready to rise and try to follow the knight blade and his daughter. But, before he could even get near the improvised bridge, he felt a hand tug at his arm.

"No, Georg," the white mage warned, setting a hand on his shoulder. "Your ribs are so bruised you can barely breathe. We must get you to the surface so I can treat your injuries."

"She's right, father," Gerde affirmed. "I know better than most how strong you are, but you'd never make it across this span in your condition." Turning to the other crew members, she said "Everyone, tend to and guard my father while I'm gone! I owe my life to Sir Damien, and will pay up right now!"

Georg looked about to protest but, at the last, he nodded in resignation. The white mage turned to Gerde and said "Go on, dear. Help Sir Damien, and leave everything here to us."

Gerde blew out a sigh of relief when she saw her normally stubborn father heed to her plea and, when Georg nodded his approval, Izlude could swear he saw a hint of smugness on the woman's face. "Very well. Good luck to both of you! Whatever you find down there, be careful!"

His daughter smiled as she joined the tips of the thumb and index finger of her right hand together in the shape of a 'o' and cried "Okay!" before turning and following Izlude across the bridge.

* * *

Izlude had to admit, creating a serviceable bridge from spare rail pieces was a remarkable feat...

...though, if his encounter with what lay across the chasm went poorly, he did not relish the idea of trying to make a hasty retreat across the questionable footing of the narrow structure.

Shaking off the grim musing, and feeling reassured by the weight of the Pisces stone at his hip, Izlude strode further down the mine shaft. This section of the mine showed worrisome disrepair, its timbers sagging and its rails all but buried beneath a carpet of rock dust. Izlude had been mentally reviewing Georg's lessons on what to do in the event of an cave-in, but this was promptly forgotten when he once more felt the chill wind which, earlier, had heralded the deluge of stones. The whispering voices returned as well, echoing louder and louder in his ears, once more demanding that he turn back and stay away. But, the knight blade was not to be dissuaded, for this was what the holy stone wanted him to do.

Whatever will or consciousness or heart it possessed had gleaned that whatever was behind this haunting threatened the livelihoods of a great entrepreneur and his workers, that Izlude was still burdened by the harm he had unwittingly done after his order had been subverted by demonkind, and that the knight blade urgently needed money in order to vie for the hand of his beloved before another man claimed her.

Through means he could not understand, the stone had deemed that guiding Izlude here could set all three of these troubles to rights and, inscrutable though the stone's workings and motives might be, it had never led him astray before.

After walking for a few more moments, Izlude's faith was rewarded as the shaft expanded into an enormous cavern. Looking ahead and then up, he finally saw the source of all the commotion in the mines that had frightened off so many miners from the consortium's past projects over the last few weeks.

Before the knight blade was a huge trove of gold and silver coins, as well as such baubles and finery as jewelry, silk tapestries, ornate vases, ivory carvings, animal pelts, jewel studded weapons, and every other piece of decadence Izlude could possibly imagine.

Dangling from iron spikes thrust into the opposite wall, and looking decidedly out of place amongst the clutter of profligacy, was a tattered banner depicting a great white shark, leaping from foaming waters, its jaws gaping wide to devour a blood red moon.

"The Moonsharks!" Gerde blurted, her eyes nearly popping out of her head.

Izlude could not blame her for her amazement, either at the hoard or its apparent owners, for he had heard of the infamous band as well. A group of fallen warriors, discharged from Ivalice's armies for gross misconduct and other villainous deeds, they had promptly found a more suitable niche as some of the most feared and hated bandits in Ivalician history. Skillful, ruthless, and much more likely to leave behind corpses rather than witnesses, they were rumored to have amassed a kingly fortune during their sordid careers.

Actually, I think we might as well drop the 'rumored' part, the knight blade reflected, stunned at the wealth which had been amassed in the cave.

As he drew near one pile of loot for a closer look, and nearly ended up tripping over a bleached skull, however, he remembered how the Moonsharks' vile legend had ended.

During the War of the Lions, a terrible plague had swept through the Gollund underground, killing countless miners and, apparently, the nefarious Moonsharks had also fallen victim to the plague, which proved every bit as implacable a killer as they were.

There were other rumors - which, Izlude suspected, were also quite plausible - that the Moonsharks had been consumed by greed and suspicion of one another that, by the time they realized their loot would mean little in the face of the plague, they had all died...

...but, though they were dead, they were not gone.

Floating above the veritable mountains of treasure, numbering twenty in all, were the translucent shades of the bandits who had amassed this trove and, so perverted by the greed which had outlived their mortal bodies, yet guarded their ill-gotten gains, even in death, where their earthly possessions were no longer of any use to them. The knight blade wasn't sure if he should feel pity or revulsion for the wretched souls, but he did know that these foul spirits had done much evil in life, continued to threaten the living, and stood between him and his fervent desires to be reunited with Alma and to have the burden of his weighty conscience lightened.

It may no longer be the former Templar's place to pass judgment on the guilty, but, whatever sentence these sinister phantasms had earned, they had evaded it far too long.

"I would say that I have no quarrel with you," Izlude said solemnly, "but, I'd be lying. I know well of your crimes in life. And, even now, your perverted vigil over this hoard threatens the livelihoods of honest men who seek to better the lives of their fellows. I will give you one chance to seek some other dark corner to skulk in. Refuse at your peril."

"Does that speech ever actually work?!" Gerde asked, more than a bit surprised but less-than-reassured by Izlude's words and commanding tone with which he spoke them.

Evidently, the phantoms were also unmoved by Izlude's demands, for they sneered at the knight blade who stood before them, defiant and yet unarmed. _Fool… they hissed. You should have turned back when_ _you had the chance._ _Now, you will never again see the light of day!_ With a final howl that stirred the hairs on the back of both mortal's necks, the phantasms floated downward and moved to attack.

The knight blade grinned fearlessly...until his reflexively grasping for his sword left him probing only the air. The corners of his mouth drew downwards and he felt his heart drop into his stomach. In the onrush of excitement - the spectral defense of the pit, Georg's near brush with disaster, and the allure of being so close to where the holy stone had been guiding him - he'd forgotten that his immediate goal had simply been to find the ghosts' lair.

Assaulting it was supposed to have happened later, when was better equipped to fight the resident specters.

He saw the revenants' sneering faces twist into hideous mockeries of amused smiles and heard a deafening face palm from Gerde, and he could blame neither party for how they reacted to his buffoonery. Still, Izlude had fought shades like these before and, while far from harmless, he also knew that they were nowhere near as dangerous as the Lucavi he had stood against in his ill-fated last stand some months prior. And, more to the point, he hadn't been lying when he'd told his fellow miners that these foul spirits could be defeated.

If only he had a weapon!

Aldrich, no doubt sensing that his imperiled investment could not withstand the prospect of miners stealing from him, had made a point of meticulously searching each worker for illicit weapons. Izlude's efforts to smuggle one in so that he'd face these ghosts with steel in hand had yet to move beyond the planning phase, stymied by both the rigorous work regimen and Aldrich's equally rigorous scrutiny of any untoward goings-on in his imperiled mine.

Thus, here Izlude stood, unarmed before the restless shades of a murderous band quite eager to add him to their bloody legacy.

"You sure know how to show a lady a good time," Gerde remarked sarcastically, though her tone and the way she brandished her pickaxe like a weapon suggested that she was unafraid of the phantoms and very nearly excited at discovering the huge treasure trove.

But, though the former Nanten could probably swing that pickaxe hard enough to split a man's skull, it was unlikely to avail her against these wraith like apparitions whose ghostly blades could reach through armor as easily as she might reach through fog. In not forcing her to stay behind, Izlude might've just signed Gerde's death warrant along with his own.

Still, the holy stone had urged him here, and it had not betrayed him.

The Pisces stone began to hum in his pocket and he heard once more the sound of his father guiding him through the slashes, parries, and thrusts best suited to the short sword he had newly gained the strength to wield. He recalled the early combination he'd been taught; a low thrust to force the opponent back a step and gain the initiative, an overhand chop to draw the defense, and then turning it into a slash from left to right at the last moment to take off the opponent's sword hand.

 _Right, right, right!_ his father's voice echoed.

Knowing that was not the sequence, but that the holy stone had presented this altered recollection for a reason, Izlude let one eye dart to the right and beheld his salvation.

Nearly lost amidst the clutter of spoils was a broad bladed knight's sword whose rounded pommel was embedded with jewels. A blade of that make was aptly known amongst knights as a Defender.

Grateful for anything with which he could fight off the fleshless monsters arrayed against him, he charged forward, tucked into a roll in midstride, and tugged the blade free as he hurtled past. With practiced ease, he leapt to his feet and spun to face his foes all in one motion, his hands already having his newfound blade drawn back over the shoulder and leveled at the enemy.

Now, with a blade in hand and an enemy to face, he almost felt like himself again.

But, even a finely crafted blade as this was just as likely to whistle through the ghostly apparitions as to cause them any real harm. But, the holy stone once more hummed in his pocket and, closing his eyes and concentrating for a brief moment, he made a silent, fervent wish to the stone to lend him its assistance once again.

More than his own life was at stake. Gerde might die with him if he did not prevail, Aldrich's business might fail and he and his family and workers would be left penniless, and the wound his beloved Alma's heart had suffered at his first death would go forever unhealed.

Vanquishing these wraiths might not by a large enough act of contrition to erase his unwitting misdeeds, but whatever good it would achieve was worth bringing about.

The steel in his hands grew warm.

When the knight blade opened his eyes, he gaped when he saw that his newfound blade was limed with pale flames. Echoes of stories he'd heard in distant days came back to him, of how, in anticipation of deadly missions of the utmost importance, the swords of distinguished Templars and holy knights were consecrated with divine magics, meant to counter undead, dark knights, and even demons. Though he'd heard these tales, he had never once seen one unfold, let alone been at the center stage of such a story.

Yet, as astonishment gave way to comprehension, he realized that the tables of this battle had turned decisively in his favor. Thus resolved, Izlude charged forward to put the phantoms of Gollund to rest and end the Moonsharks' foul legacy for good.

Gerde was gaping too, but not at his now fabulous blade. As the baptism of fire had taken place, and the knight blade's eyes had opened, she saw that his irises were no longer grey, but shone with an eerie glow every color of the rainbow.

Okay, who or what the hell is this guy?! she silently thundered, but she had no time to ponder the question.

"Stay back, Gerde!" Izlude ordered as the malevolent lost souls descended upon him.

The knight blade, despite the long months since his last battle, fell back into the deadly dance of singing steel with such ease that he was left amazed. Though the ghosts would have been resistant to even a finely wrought blade, the holy flames wreathing his sword swept through one phantom after another, and each shrilled its agony just as it dissolved and vanished into nothingness. The knight blade parried their blows, their spectral weapons evaporating at a touch from the holy flames, and then thrust deep to send these specters who'd done much evil in life to face final judgment...

...but, these specters were no more ruthless in death than they were in life.

Some had hung back, assessing their foe as their former comrades were vanquished and, sensing a potential weakness, came at Izlude from all sides. Those in front sidestepped or leapt away from his blows, distracting him so that phantasmal blades could slip in unnoticed to pierce him in the side and back. Soon, the knight blade felt the chill of the grave which imbued their weapons sapping his strength and causing his vision to swim. The ghouls moved in for the kill...

...but froze in place when the sound of breaking crockery rang out.

"I think I broke your thing here!" Gerde's voice rang out.

As one, the ghouls turned and, when they saw the former Nanten throwing luxuriant pelts to the floor and stomping them, they shrieked and, the knight blade forgotten, charged at the offending woman. They swarmed over her in a body, packed so close in their killing frenzy that the ghouls seemed to have melded together, one's elbow residing in his neighbor's ribcage while another's head sprung from his fellow's shoulder...

...which was precisely where Gerde wanted them.

Digging into her pockets, she removed a handful of red-orange feathers and blew them into the revenants' faces. The feathers, phoenix down, weren't nearly as flashy as Izlude's flaming sword, but proved no less deadly to the phantasms.

They let out another shriek, this one of agony and fear, and then all but a handful of them were gone. Izlude could not help but smile when he saw nearly all the phantoms in the cave being decimated by Gerde's cunningly using their own greed to destroy them, and he brought his consecrated blade up to finish off the few, panicked revenants which remained.

Within minutes, the battle was over. Once the phantoms were finally put to rest, the stone's impromptu consecration of the sword faded. Izlude's eyes returned to their grey color and the holy flames which had wreathed the blade of his sword dimmed and vanished. Abruptly aware of how tired he was, and wondering how much of his fighting prowess hadn't stemmed from his years of experience, he collapsed to one knee, his hands clutching his chest as his lungs heaved for air.

"Sir Damien!" his young partner cried as she rushed to his side to help him up. "Are you all right?"

For a stretching second, the simple question left Izlude struggling to answer. In a matter of moments, he had, literally, lived one of the most coveted fantasies of those who took up the sword in the name of the heavens. His sword had been blessed with holy fire, which no evil being could touch without being incinerated. And, nary a breath later, he had used that power to bring justice to a band of murderous spirits who, even in death, threatened to do much evil to honest folk.

When he had made his first sojourn into the realm of the deceased, he's suspected that his own soul was no less twisted by the crimes he had committed and rationalized while serving the high confessor's designs and, albeit unwittingly, those of the demon who wore his father's skin. Yet, he had held the very flames meant to slay evil and had not only survived them, but had used them to, at long last, do something he could, without reservation, say had been right.

Did this mean that his guilt had been absolved? Or, that he had never been guilty in the first place? He could not say, but all he truly knew was that, for the first time in the long time, his heavy conscience was much lighter. What's more, with the foul spirits of the Moonsharks gone, Aldrich's business and his workers' livelihoods were saved, making his reunion with Alma so close that he could almost taste her lips upon his.

And, it was good.

His expression broadened into a smile that would've made a less stoic woman blush as he patted Gerde on the hand. "Yes, I'm fine. And, not that I'm ungrateful for your help, but why did you not run back to the others? You must've known whatever I thought to find down here would be dangerous and you could have been hurt."

The young woman grinned. "What else can I say? I ain't afraid of no ghost. And besides, look at all this loot!"

Izlude could not help but stare at his fearless young friend for a moment before bursting into laughter. Even after he'd laughed himself hoarse, he was still grinning when he heard a clatter of footfalls and saw Aldrich and a newly healed Georg burst into the room. Realizing what must've happened, and that Izlude and Gerde's actions had likely saved him and his family and workers from financial ruin, Aldrich nearly broke Izlude, Gerde, and Georg's arms shaking their hands. That done, he promptly promised a one eighth share of the Moonsharks' former loot, as well as owner's shares in the consortium, to each of the trio.

The knight blade, realizing that such an amount of the loot and the income from the shares might very well be enough to buy several acres of Lesalian countryside, and an estate to put on it, was flabbergasted at the offer...

...flabbergasted, but still grateful.

He would not only have enough money for transportation to Lesalia and finery to wear when he sought Alma's hand, but enough that he could give her, and the family he hoped they'd have, a proper home wherever they sought to spend their new lives together.

'The Ivalician Dream', as it had been so eloquently dubbed, had gifted him with both a fortune he had fairly earned and a second chance, both as a man in love and as a man of God.

"Three days a working man, and you're already rich and famous!" Georg cheered, pulling the knight blade into a rib cracking hug. "That's the sort of day you remember for the rest of your lives and dazzle your grandkids with!"

Despite the intoxicatingly beautiful image this conjured in his mind, or himself and Alma happily together for many years and watching their children grown and having children of their own, Izlude knew Georg well enough to know where this conversation was going.

 _Oh, no..._ he realized in dawning comprehension and helpless terror.

"And, that deserves a drink!"

 _Oh, yes..._ he mused in resignation as he was bustled back to the surface.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Ok, we're going to cut it off here. If anyone finds the scene with the ghosts familiar, it's because it was inspired by the anime 'Kara no Kyoukai', particularly Shiki Ryougi's roof-top fight scenes with the phantoms of several tormented young girls who committed suicide by jumping off the building.
> 
> watch?v=_CZqNwakCUE&list=FL7XYfD9Po3WrSGE5DMWR7kA&index=19


	12. Interlude 1: Uneasy Is the Head That Wears the Crown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry for the wait, my co-writer and I have been crazy busy with work and all but we finally managed to get this fic going again. This part takes a break from Izlude as well as Ramza and company's adventures and focuses mainly on the state of Ivalice during and after the Lion War as well as the ascension of King Delita. This interlude was written solely by my co-writer and editor Falchion1984 whom I like to thank for making this fic possible.

 

If Dorter was the great crossroads of Ivalice and Gollund her treasury, then Lesalia Castle was the bejeweled crown upon her brow.

Raised centuries ago by the first of the Atkascha line, the castle was a study in opulence. Walls of smooth marble, from which innumerable towers rose to pierce the heavens, encircled the outer boundaries of the castle, festooned with delicate inlaid mosaics and stained glass windows depicting some of the more beloved of the ancient royal line.

Barring an invitation from the resident monarch, most Ivalicians were lucky to get even that close to the castle, but these would nonetheless come away stunned with wonderment. So awed were they by the marble walls - not just their sheer size, but the marvel of engineering that allowed the stones to be fitted together so perfectly and worn so smooth that one could run a hand over the surface without suffering so much as a blemish - that even those who lived lavish lives in their own right could not help but feel dwarfed by this beautiful barrier which guarded the royal family's privacy.

Quite a few uninvited guests would, at times, slip into the castle's shadow, tempted to run palm and fingers over the river smooth marble.

Reportedly, in more peaceful times, the castle guards' favorite diversion was taking bets on how many such visitors would be caught...and what manner of punishment they would suffer for despoiling the stately marble.

Though the wall was a magnificent jewel box, created both to protect and exhibit the great wealth, power, and history of the Atkascha line, it was still but a jewel box.

And, like all jewel boxes, the true wonders were discovered within.

A maze of broad corridors, all fashioned of brilliantly colored marble, bisected by fluted pillars which rose to support high vaulted ceilings, connected what felt like hundreds of opulent bedchambers, luxuriously appointed drawing rooms, a library that seemed more akin to a forest of books, and a decadent ballroom which haunted the dreams of every lovelorn soul in Ivalice.

In each and all, carefully placed by the finest of decorators so as to strike the delicate balance between enchanting a visitor and overwhelming them, were pieces of statuary, ornate vases, silken tapestries, earthen jars from which rose spreading, flowering plants, plush carpeting, ornamental suits of armor standing seemingly at attention, and portraits of royals, knights, maidens, and other remarkable figures, all illuminated by the flickering light of countless candles which burned from hundreds of golden chandeliers and candelabras.

The city of Lesalia, though not nearly as lavish as the castle that rose from its heart, ran a close second in terms of decadence.

The capital of Ivalice was the locale of choice for every noble family possessed of wealth worth the flaunting, and even a casual glance at its more upscale districts drove this point home as surely as an archer drives home a well-shot arrow. Broad avenues of cobblestoned streets wound their way through a veritable forest of majestic structures which shined against the sun. Estates of the median to lower level nobility, their stately homes accentuated by such adornments as expansive gardens and statues of fantastical creatures flanking every door, dotted the cityscape. Many of these belonged to nobles whose family lines traced a path back over centuries, subtly hinted at by how climbing vines embraced the exteriors of those grand dwellings which had passed smoothly from one generation to the next, as blue-blooded children were birthed in the master bedrooms and then bid farewell to parents and children alike in the same place.

Though men and women bearing lofty titles seemed to swarm every fashionable avenue, they were not the only residents of this city of splendors.

In such a city which was near to bursting at the seams with wealth, those of lesser means but who wished to secure a better future for themselves and their families could not hope to find a more lush hunting ground than Lesalia.

From the greater province of Lesalia and beyond, the wealth that could be had for those willing to dare the challenge of satisfying the nobility's desire for excess drew in enterprising folk of all descriptions. Whether they were jewelers, sculptors, painters, gem cutters, goldsmiths, weavers, seamstresses, potters, gardeners, playwrights, actors, musicians, curators, bookkeepers, masons, blacksmiths, woodsmiths, breeders of chocobos and other desirable creature companions, bakers, butchers, chefs, or simply man and maidservants, there could be no more an abundant hunting ground for affluent patrons willing to offer princely sums for whatever tantalized their fancy. A position in the veritable army who fed, bathed, clothed, beautified, and entertained this city of splendors was not a posting for the faint of heart, for the only things that would, or could, exceed the size of a would-be patron's wallet was the height of their standards and the fickleness of their tastes.

And, given how Lesalia's leading commodity was gossip, stories of any egregious mistakes would wend their way from mouth to mouth, and from district to district, with frightening speed.

Yet, for those willing to dare such a gambit, the dividends from such precarious labors could be truly amazing.

This was displayed, if not flaunted, by the households of those who, although bearing no title and being less wealthy than their silk-clad patrons, nonetheless had amassed great wealth catering to the frivolous whims of these lords and ladies who seemed to swarm the city. More than a few of those who had emerged triumphant and flush with gil from their tribulations were eager to showcase their success and more than a few of those commoners who had thus prospered lived in considerable splendor themselves. Even those of more restrained persuasions made sure that their homes were well kept and cozy, and even some of these were sizable in their own right. In both cases, however, it was considered a mark of the successful self-made Lesalian that their home boasted a private yard, a rare possession for one without some title or other attached to their name.

Apart from serving as a sort of testimonial to their hard work and their success, which was instantly recognizable to any with even passing knowledge of the city's nuances, these expanses of waving grass and beds of flowers also served as playgrounds where children merrily engaged in rough and tumble games seemingly at all hours. And yet, no matter what dragon they were slaying or treasure they were unearthing, these children never failed to jump for joy at the sight of their parents returning home after a long day's work.

Their exuberance, and the smell of a warm meal wafting through the windows, never failed to make hard day's work feel well worth it when such a parent had such a home and such a family to come home to.

As veterans of the endless struggle to cater to the whims of the wealthy made their own fortunes and retired, others arrived to take their places, all eager to follow a similar trail to wealth.

And, the city itself was rife with the facilities needed for those willing to undertake such a challenge.

In the expansive commercial districts of the city abounded elegant theaters with their fancifully garbed actors and musicians, galleries crammed with wondrous sculptures and breathtaking paintings, finely decorated jewelry shops offering all manner of beautifully cut gemstones set into wondrously wrought settings, and glittering gambling halls where fortunes changed hands daily on the turning of a card or the rolling of ivory dice. Such wonders abounded on every street, arresting the eye and stilling the breath of residents and newcomers alike.

Much like Lesalia Castle, the city that surrounded it showcased the wealth of Ivalice; not only in her gold, jewels, and other finery, but also the craft of her painters, musicians, playwrights, actors, sculptors, weavers, masons, and all manner of artists and craftsmen. Taken together, Lesalia seemed an eternal mark of the magnificence of Ivalice and the power of the royal bloodline which had forged the seven kingdoms into one and eternally surrounded itself in tributes to this ancient victory. Even the Fifty Years War had failed to mar the decadence of the bejeweled heart of Ivalice.

The War of the Lions, however, had changed that.

Like many of the great storms in history, the warnings of what was to come came on distant breezes, many of which were at first dismissed by the people at large. Though there had been no shortage of idle gossip and speculation when news of then-Princess Ovelia's abduction began wafting in from the outside world, there had been little true alarm outside the castle walls.

Granted, in a city where gossip found its most fertile soil, there had been no shortage of speculation as to who might be the culprit of such a foul deed, why this obscure princess had become so sought after as to have both the Hokuten and the Nanten scrambling to find her, the identity of the hitherto unknown Blackram Knight who'd apparently saved her life, and who, between the two dukes who accused the other of the crime, would profit most from the sudden widening of the schism between them.

Swapping newly acquired tidbits on these peculiar occurrences and speculating on how these strange events would unfold had provided many an hour of entertainment and diversion from the daily cares and anxieties of life, whether from the affluent idleness of the wealthy or the daily grind of those still climbing their way up the ladder of Ivalice's convoluted society.

The travails of Princess Ovelia and her mysterious rescuer, and the implications that the former had been the target of an assassination plot had made a charming addition to the city's ever-churning cauldron of gossip...but, not much else.

Within the city walls, a sort of entropy had prevailed over much of populace. Whether it was born from generations of having neither wanted for anything nor any empathy for or even conception of those legions of 'someone elses' who were less fortunate, or those of lesser means whose whole beings went into earning the wealth and reputation by which their children would be able to live better lives than their parents had known, the result was the same. The abduction of a princess whom half the people had never heard of, and about whom the other half knew practically nothing, seemed as no more than a fascinating tale of the nigh-mythical lands beyond the city's impregnable outer walls.

And then, one day, those walls came crashing down as the fascinating tale took on a life of its own and evolved into an epic tragedy which upended the ensconced lives of Lesalia's people.

The news of Princess Ovelia's rescue by a humble Blackram Knight had seemed, to some, like a charming end to an otherwise sad and dreary tale while others seemed almost disappointed that a story which such potential for intrigue had ended so soon. But, as it turned out, the story had only just begun.

Gradually, subtle signs began to crop up and mar the unchanging splendor of Lesalia. First, goods from Zeltennia and Limberry abruptly stopped arriving, as did those who peddled them. Almost immediately after that, those nobles who represented Zeltennia and Limberry's interests in Ivalice's council abruptly left, taking their various retinues with them. Later still, those contingents of Nanten and Aegis Knights which were part of the city's garrison seemingly vanished, their barracks and chapterhouses vacated so thoroughly as to leave one wondering if they'd even been occupied in the first place.

The rumors and the exodus had been the first drops of the cloudburst, and the deluge quickly followed.

It was presaged, as storms wrought by nature were presaged, by a booming clap of thunder that caused all within earshot to jump and whirl in the direction of the sound, wondering how an out-of-season storm had come upon them unnoticed...except that this storm was no product of nature's weave.

In fact, it was worse. Much worse.

Another crash reverberated over the city, and its northern and southern gates shuddered as though under the impact of a massive fist.

Several blows later, all of which witnessed by Lesalians who stood rooted to the spot in shock, the gates crumbled and in poured a host of Nanten and Aegis Knights. A knight of the Lionsguard raced to meet them, a demand for an explanation left unspoken on his lips as one of the Nanten ran him through.

After that, all was confusion and terror as Ivalicians drew steel against each other, the lightning of their arcing blades lending a horrifically perfect accompaniment to the thunder of the Zeltennian and Limberry siege engines that rained down catapult stones and ballista harpoons.

Many Lesalians, still immobilized by shock and horror, were roused from their terror induced stupors only when cold steel pierced their hearts or when a stray shot from a catapult smashed them into pulp. As many more Lesalians sought refuge in some ill-considered corner, only for their shelter to be flattened by a catapult stone or for the fires that later swept over the city to infiltrate their holes and choke them to death with clouds of thick smothering smoke.

Those who lived through that night of horrors emerged to find that their troubles had not ended.

Quite the opposite, in fact.

Many who'd climbed their way up into lives of wealth after many years of hard work and patience found their homes or businesses, or both, looted and burned, if not by the invaders from Zeltennia and Limberry then by neighbors driven mad from terror and desperation. Some families who'd attempted to regroup and determine what to do next found their half-formed plans lost to grief when they realized that some amongst their number had not arrived, nor ever would. Those nobles who'd lived in the city, who'd found themselves targets for the invaders, saw the doors of their estates kicked in and priceless treasures, some which had been passed down by their family for centuries, hauled off like the spoils of war...and some even saw the invaders add highborn wives and daughters to their haul.

Not one Lesalian passed the following evening without wishing to wake up and discover that the whole episode had been no more than a terrible nightmare. But, even amongst those who could find sleep afterward, this wish was in vain.

And, the nightmare was far from over. In fact, it was spreading to engulf every soul in Ivalice.

As Ivalice turned against herself, and communities all across the kingdom already battered and bleeding from decades of war with Ordalia were broken asunder, those who'd lost homes and livelihoods found themselves with little choice but to gather their meager belongings and venture forth in search of some oasis that yet remained amidst the desolation of war and poverty.

And, what oasis could offer greater succor than Lesalia, the everlasting jewel of the troubled kingdom?

And so, heady with dreams of starting anew in a land of endless splendor, desperate men, women, and children from Gallione, Limberry, Zeltennia, and even Lesalia's own province began a perilous journey towards the alabaster spires which offered the desperate hope of survival and, perhaps, even a second chance at happiness.

Such dreams, however, were not realized easily.

All too aware of just how much damage could be done to their war efforts by hordes of hungry refugees flooding their streets, both Larg and Goltana had taken great pains to ensure that their borders were tightly held against the desperate droves. Whatever men and women-at-arms could be spared from the front were stationed along the borders which divided Lesalia from Zeltennia and Limberry, manning hastily built fortifications watching over even more hastily cleared fields for anyone, armed or otherwise, trying to cross the battle lines of the raging civil war.

Anyone spotted trying to get past one of these ramshackle border posts without some proof that they did so with the consent of the duke to whom the post answered were forcibly turned back...and those who proved stubborn in the face of such warnings were dealt with harshly.

Though the nets of these border guards never passed a day without drawing a catch, the posts were sparse and undermanned, due to the unrelenting attrition on the front. And, as flooding in the west and drought in the east forced more and more desperate folk onto the road, the flood of humanity soon swelled beyond all controlling. And, even if the warring dukes could have spared the men needed to guard every means of ingress through every hour of every day, desperation often revealed means around such measures.

As is all too often the case in desperate times, those possessed of keen wits and nary a scruple quickly discovered means by which to derive personal gain from a world of suffering. Cadres of smugglers soon cropped up across Ivalice like so many weeds, each offering safe passage to the shining streets of Lesalia...for a price.

Some smugglers moved their live cargo via tunnels opened in the earth through the use of geomancy, prodding them through scantly lit passages which, the unwilling refugees feared, would collapse on them...and, at times, such fears were realized. Other smugglers plied Ivalician waters in decrepit barges, their 'passengers' crammed into the bilges as they languished in the filth, many of them succumbing to disease and callously tossed overboard by their so-called benefactors just as casually as the waste in which they gasped their last. Others still drove caravans of chocobo drawn wagons, men, women, and children crammed into barrels and sacks meant from transporting foodstuffs. Barely able to move an inch, lest they attract the attention of patrolling troops or incur the wrath of the smugglers, the ensconced refugees could only suffer in silence, warding off the madness of the smothering darkness and terrible silence, however, they could.

Many such refugees failed to reach Lesalia. Some were caught and turned back or simply branded as enemy agents and killed on the spot, others died of hunger, disease, or madness during the journey, and others still, realizing with horror the full breadth and depth of the smugglers' evil, decided that taking their own lives was preferable to a meager life where every breath would be exploited by the villains who had smuggled them to Lesalia.

And, many of those who'd survived the journey sometimes envied those who had not.

Within the first few months of the war, over one hundred thousand such castaways had washed up in Lesalia like so much flotsam. And, as shanty towns began to spring up like so many toadstools, a war of a different - and, if anything, even worse - sort was brought right to the Atkaschas' doorstep. Having little in the way of coin to pay the smugglers, the refugees, who had gazed with such longing and hope at the marbled walls of Lesalia discovered that they had traded one yoke for another. The smugglers, who would tolerate not even the smallest lapse in payment, would track down their onetime human cargo, wringing from them whatever meager funds they could.

And, when there was no coin to be had, they took their payment in the form of flesh, forcing themselves on the women and girls and offering an 'extension' to the horror-stricken family in exchange.

Those who could offer neither coin nor flesh soon found the local authorities knocking at their door, and a noose around their necks soon after.

Those who'd lived in Lesalia long before the arrival of these huddled masses, however, fared little better.

Whether it was a product of man's great propensity to loathe his fellows who had what he did not, whether pivotal of trivial, or whether it was the desperation of too many days with an empty belly that could erode reason and righteousness alike, the castaways who'd washed up on the island of marble that was Lesalia soon found their despair becoming hostility towards their unwanted neighbors.

Once prosperous shops and other establishments were repeatedly ransacked, either from spite or simple desperation, and the estates of the nobility soon found their expansive lawns becoming armed camps manned by emaciated but still fearsome bands of the impoverished. Any native Lesalian who traveled alone by night did so at the peril of being beaten, or even killed, for whatever small coin or meager food might be on their person and, for those women who were thusly waylaid, a toll even worse could be exacted by those who prowled the once pristine streets.

Even the more benign activities of the refugee hordes, such as huddling for warmth on the doorstep of one of the many businesses of Lesalia's self-made men and women, saw once loyal customers shy away and hard earned fortunes shrink as the ledgers took an ever bleaker course.

And, with the city's constabulary all but disbanded as its constables were pressed into the army, all this depravity, and the violent reprisals from both sides went on unabated.

Yet, in a truly strange irony, both sides ended their harsh days in the same manner.

As the sun vanished beneath the horizon and the stars blazed with cold fire in the ebon skies above, each and all of Lesalia's troubled peoples turned their gaze heavenward and asked what they had done to deserve this.

And, when the winking stars offered no reply, all uttered a prayer that someday, somehow, this long nightmare would end.

Then, one day, with a suddenness that astonished all, this prayer was answered.

Some of the more romantic, or fatalistic, souls in Ivalice had expected the War of the Lions to end in an epic final confrontation which would dwarf even what would've taken place at Fort Besselat if the sluice hadn't inexplicably opened before the battle could be joined. And, for those in Lesalia, fears that history would repeat itself if Zeltennian and Limberry troops darkened their doorstep again haunted seemingly every waking moment.

So, when the Blackram Knight of that long ago tale of then-Princess Ovelia and her mysterious rescuer arrived in Lesalia at the head of the Black Lion forces, all onlookers feared the worst.

Yet, to their astonishment, the self-proclaimed king sought not vengeance, but reconciliation. To those who swore loyalty to him, he would spare their lives and, in good time, aid them in reclaiming their futures. Despite no small amount of skepticism, the possibility, however slight, that Lesalia's dark days might be drawing to a close was enough to have the high and the lowly alike taking a knee before the man who would be later known as King Delita Hyral I.

Several weeks on, though much work yet remained, the Lesalians were near to bursting with relief when this new king proved as good as his word. After the dissolution of the feudalist controls which had allowed the crown and its most immediate subordinates to control every last coin, the floods in Gallione and the droughts in Limberry had finally ended. Taken together, once sparsely filled markets where native Lesalians and refugees alike would battle over meager stocks of food, often tearing apart the shopkeepers in the process, were now bursting at the seams and able to sell their goods for prices that were unheard-of since before the Fifty Years War. No less remarkable, Delita had been able to win over the skeptical refugees by offering them, according to their own choice, the opportunity to build new villages throughout the countryside which, upon completion, would be their new homes or, alternatively, to allow him to broker arrangements between them and the native Lesalian businesses, whom he urged to provide them room and board in return for work and, at the end of the term, to either take them into their employ or give them a stipend to start life afresh elsewhere.

Those native Lesalians, who remembered all too well that these refugees were the same people who had looted their business and, in some cases, did far worse, were mollified only when Delita made them an offer no less generous. Any business or individual entrepreneur that signed such an agreement would see a drastic reduction in their taxes and rents and, in a hitherto unheard-of gesture, the opportunity to buy land from destitute or annihilated noble families so that they could, potentially, rebuild and expand their businesses. This, the stunned masses realized, meant that, where once they'd have to rent land from nobles who were as likely to use their control over the rents on the land to dictate what and to whom their enterprising tenants could sell, and run them out of business at the first sign of objection, the entrepreneurs could now carve out their own mercantile empires on land far more valuable than what they'd owned previously.

No less amazing, these mercantile empires would be theirs to govern and expand as they saw fit. And, without having to navigate the caltrop laden field that was the old Ivalice's feudal architecture, their former prosperity seemed to pale compared to the wealth that lay in the offing now that Ivalice's self-made men and women now had self-determination over what, when, to whom, and for how much they could sell their wares.

Whereas the crown had maintained a stranglehold on Ivalice's economy, with past kings and queens dictating from on high where and when every last copper went, this new monarch now made the unprecedented vow to break that stranglehold and allow a free market, run by free men and women, to rise in its place.

Someone mentioned, rather needlessly, that such a thing had never been done before...and, if anything, such daring inventiveness added to King Delita's mystique and the allure of his promise.

And, with that promise, came promises greater still. Namely, the chance not only to rebuild what they had lost to the war but to gain greater wealth and renown than they had ever dreamed of during those bygone days when Lesalia had still been the untouched jewel of decadence in Ivalice's crown.

Even those nobles who had financed the war efforts of his avowed enemies were invited to participate in the revivification of Ivalice. Many of these had supported Larg, though the late Duke of Gallione had run short on friends long before his death as one fortune after another was lavished upon the war with the only returns being dead bodies. Many of these nobles were nearly bankrupt, others had sons and daughters who had served as knights in Larg's host and yet languished in the overflowing dungeons which Delita had inherited upon Goltana's death, and others still had seen their children march to war never too return and were left only with a stately manor haunted by the ghosts of brighter days and specters of the sons and daughters whose lives no amount of wealth could buy back.

Many of these had sizable holdings of land which they now lacked the funds or workers to maintain. These, in the proper hands and with good labor, could be made into prosperous farms to feed the malnourished kingdom, logging operations to rebuild sundered communities, and mines where veins of gold and iron, the fuel of any kingdom, could be unearthed. In exchange for offering these lands for outright purchase rather than rent or lease, some nobles would be able to act as full partners in such an enterprise with the salary that such a position commanded, as well as a fixed percentage of the proceeds. For others, he offered to throw wide the doors of his dungeons and return their sons and daughters, whom he'd made a point of describing as "worthy adversaries", with no conditions, bargains, or petitions beyond those agreed upon between the unlikely partners in the rebuilding of Ivalice.

And, to those who had no heirs to inherit their lands, he offered the hope, prayer, and promise that his plan would allow them to live their remaining days seeing that the kingdom which their sons and daughters died for would not only endure but prosper. And this, much to the surprise of those who'd spent many a night crying themselves to sleep in long empty nurseries, was enough.

Suffice to say, Delita's offer had been met with unbridled acclamation.

Some prostrated themselves as though in the presence of a divine being, others wept in the uncontrollable joy that their nightmares had ended and the future lay bright before them, and others still expressed their happiness to Delita in ways that were...potentially inappropriate.

On parchment, charging at a monarch to gather him into a rib-cracking hug usually merited a flogging. But, in a display of magnanimousness that once more left every mouth hanging agape, Delita declared to his scandalized guards that, if ever there was a day to make exceptions, this was it.

Then, as if these simple words, these promises that would seem as mere wind when escaping another's lips, were a shaft of light radiating from the heavens, the thunderhead of death and despair that was the War of the Lions was sundered for good and all.

Days and weeks blurred together as the work began at a pace which boggled the imagination. Contracts for the purchase of land from distressed noble houses were signed and, to couple one previously unthinkable image with another, nobles and commoners, seeking to rebuild their lost fortunes, sat at a table discussing how best to guide their shared investments to success.

And, success followed apace.

With much of Ivalice still in the throes of hunger, crops sold as fast as they could be harvested. As the ravaged farmlands of Gallione and Limberry turned green and vibrant again, and plots of fertile land left untilled were cleared and sown, wagons bulging with food soon began to swarm the roads of the kingdom, flooding markets large and small with goods that could be sold for a pittance.

Even those of different persuasions found themselves a niche in this strange and yet tantalizing new world.

Hidden treasures - portraits, sculptures, jewels, and other bits of finery which had been stolen or abandoned by those who'd fled their homes - had begun to crop up in many a shadowy corner of Lesalia and many other cities beyond. Most of these were in poor condition, either from the careless hands who cared little beyond how much bread such a trifle might buy or the ravages of time and nature following their owners fleeing for their lives, and thus a new trade emerged, dedicated to restoring such pieces. Painters, sculptors, and jewelers, their customary clientele otherwise occupied, applied their talents to renewing faded artwork, mending cracked or mutilated statues, and wiping the tarnish of jewelry. Such pieces, if their owners could be traced, were returned while those pieces whose owners could not be found were resold.

And, in a city where gossip changes hands as easily as coin, such tales of skill and good will were sprouted as readily as the crops in Ivalice's now flourishing soil.

No less amazing, the onetime refugees who'd spent years flouted the laws handed down by those who cared as little for them as one would for the dirt beneath their boots, had held up their end of King Delita's proposed bargain. Many took to the burgeoning lumber camps, felling trees and sawing boards, supports, and shingles from the raw logs. And, as the growing skeleton of what would be their new homes gradually took shape, even the weary amongst their number found their exhaustion chased away by both the pride in looking upon something they had built and rightfully owned, and envisioning the better future which might finally be at their fingertips.

As much more refugees decided to stay in Lesalia, more than a few of these finding their consciences promptly filling the void after their hunger was tamed. Seeing in a different light those they'd held in contempt, and against whom they'd done much that hindsight informed them was evil, many of these refugees found themselves unwilling to let such a black matter lie. Many offered their services to the shopkeepers whose homes and businesses they once terrorized, asking only for a roof over their head and a modest meal in return. Few of the shopkeepers were enthused by the proposition, but King Delita's offer of lesser taxes and rents for those who obliged such a request proved too tantalizing, and too badly needed, to ignore. And, remarkably, these former refugees honored their word.

Some arrived for work earlier than expected and stayed much later than was expected of them, others showed a level of care and diligence in their labors that rivaled that of their salaried counterparts, and others still eschewed such disreputable pastimes as drinking and gambling in favor of studying up on aspects of their newfound trades which they'd yet to explore.

When their original contracts drew to a close, more than a few businessmen, amazed that the bundle of filthy rags that once huddled on his doorstep for warmth was the same person as the one who'd become such a valued asset, were quick to offer a salaried position if such was desired.

More often than not, such discussions ended in the outlining of terms, a handshake, and, more than the exchange of coin and services, the healing power of forgiveness also passed from one to the other.

Each and all saw, as time blurred the past, their once tarnished and defiled city mending and blossoming like a flower which none had realized was still in the bud, all spared more than a few moments to turn admiring eyes to toward the castle, their gazes alighting upon the all too familiar silhouette of a man standing upon the ramparts.

Even as his promises took shape, and the high and the lowly alike sowed and reaped the bounty of prosperity to which he'd set them to work, King Delita Hyral I yet watched over his people, wordlessly reminding them that he would always be there to guide the ship of state as she sought to leave behind the shoals of war and poverty and seek the strong winds of peace and prosperity.

And, just as surely as the people always saw him atop the ramparts, they always said a prayer of thanks that this fairytale prince amongst the peasants had leaped free of the pages to cleave away the dark clouds of the War of the Lions.

But, even as skepticism withered in the face of Delita's many promises taking shape, certain questions lingered.

The northern and southern gates of the city, which had been smashed down when the armies of the Black Lion had stormed the city to seize the traitorous - and, thankfully, deceased - former Queen Ruvelia yet lay broken even with so much of the city now rebuilt and beginning to flourish.

No less peculiar, the shanty towns which had sprung up during the flood of refugees yet remained standing.

Though these questions were voiced only in quiet corners and in fervent whispers, they were as persistent as a gnat, buzzing around the ear and threatening to despoil.

Why would the ruined gates be left in shambles when, even with the war over, Ivalice never lacked for roaming bands of monsters and ne'er-do-wells?

That the shanty towns had been left standing was even more bizarre. Not only were they as loathed by their occupants as much as by those who'd already been on the island of marble that was Lesalia when the flood of humanity arrived, but the sprawl of decrepit shacks was all but deserted. The refugees, who needed little urging to accept Delita's offer of new homes in return for labor, had abandoned those crumbling hovels as quickly as they could, leaving behind only handfuls of squatters and scavengers, madmen, and fugitives from the justice that took shape in the figure perched upon Lesalia Castle's battlements like a great bird of prey.

The question of these oddities yet persisted, as was expected since gossip being Lesalia's leading commodity was one of the few things that remained well and truly unchanged over the years, but no amount of speculation and suppositions could yield an answer. And so, with a shrug and a crinkling of the brow, the people pondering these peculiarities went back to their lives and tried, with varying degrees of success, to put the matter out of their minds.

These too, they hoped, were but another remnant of the many horrors of the long nightmare that was the War of the Lions. And, it was a nightmare which, many hoped, was, at last, giving way to dawn.


	13. A Throne of Bayonets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And now the spotlight falls on the new King of Ivalice, Delita Hyral the First and his inner struggles. Will be vulnerable to the Lucavi as Ramza has feared? You make the call! ;) Once again, I would like to thank my co-writer and editor, Falchion1984 for his help in making this fic possible and we would love to hear your thoughts on it :)

Whether speculations and conjectures are bandied about amidst the glittering streets of Lesalia or the slums of Sar Ghidos, whether they pass between the lips of the high or the lowly, and no matter just what tale is being uttered, repeated, exaggerated, or dismissed, one constant unfailingly holds firm.

The truth is more complicated.

Especially when it involves Delita Hyral.

As he lingered atop the battlements of Lesalia Castle, one might suspect that the newly crowned king was surveying his realm, or was on the lookout for trouble that might yet despoil the hopeful horizon, or even simply acquainting himself with the glittering streets and marble walls so far removed from the rickety farmhouse of his humble birth.

In truth, it was all of these...and yet none.

For though he had looked out at the city for a time, he was well past gaping and gawking at the splendor of the alabaster island that was Lesalia. Indeed, the reinventing of himself had placed particular emphasis on suppressing the distraction of such gaudy glitter and glamor as he saw parading below him...

...or, perhaps, the part of him that would have run like the wind to soak up every sight he could in this city of splendors had been burned away in the fires of Fort Zeikden.

Quite a bit else had, that was certain.

He still remembered the heat on his skin as the kegs of gunpowder erupted into coronas of flame, the clouds of stinging smoke, and the taste of ashes in his mouth. Yet, each and all paled compared to the memory of Teta lying dead at his feet.

And, they paled all the further compared to the memory of Teta, who'd yet had the spark of life in her, using her last breath to hurl herself atop him, shielding him from the final cacophony of thunder and flames when he was too numb by grief to even want his life, let alone seek to save it.

Perhaps it was her second, and final, death that had burned away much of what Delita had been before. Or, maybe the fires of Zeikden had been akin to the fires of rebirth from the legends of the phoenix, which immolated itself and then rose renewed from the ashes.

Whatever the reason, Delita the would-be squire had been shed and a very different Delita had limped away after burying what was left of his sister's savaged corpse.

The first change he had made was to discard his aborted tutelage in the ways of the knighthood...at least, beneath the surface. After all, Dycedarg and Zalbag had been knights, chivalrous and valorous, whose words spoke only truth and whose blades protected the helpless.

Yet, this hadn't stopped Dycedarg from falsely claiming that the rescue of Teta from the Corpse Brigade would be his foremost concern, nor did it stop Zalbag from allowing the helpless to be cut down so that the foe shielded behind them could be reached.

Whether the chivalric code the two elder Beoulves had professed to follow had died with their father, or whether it had never existed in the first place, Delita neither knew nor cared. He knew only that, when denial and grief over Teta's death had given way to grim resignation and acceptance, he had found himself impressed by the power of the elder Beoulves' deceit. Even after Algus' spiteful warning had spurred Ramza and Delita's mad dash to the Corpse Brigade's final redoubt, hindsight told Delita that he had believed Dycedarg and Zalbag's claims right up to the moment Teta's breast had sprouted that crossbow quarrel.

Right up until that terrible moment, in spite of the grain of doubt Algus had sown, Delita had believed that the elder scions of his adopted family would honor their word and save their lowborn surrogate sister when, in truth, they had been lying to his face from the start.

More than his history with the two brothers had nurtured this false belief, however. What made the soil of his naiveté richer still was their sheer weight of presence, their force of personality, and the conviction with which they had given voice to such lies. Perhaps they'd sensed that Ramza and Delita's interference would complicate their position in Ivalice's convoluted society and that a half brother and his common-born playmate were comparatively expendable. Or, maybe they'd decided that the youngest Beoulve and his unlikely cohort needed a harsh lesson in what they regarded as the truths of life.

Whatever the reason, both men had played upon the younger pair's wishes and fears in order to blind them to truth, to maintain the illusion that both men walked freely rather than dancing on puppet's strings.

That, Delita had realized as he stumbled away from Teta's humble grave, was true power. Not swords, nor spells, nor wealth, nor birth, nor any other manner of weapon or leverage. As he looked into himself, commanding his reluctant eye to see his own tragedy with the dispassionate air of one far removed from the tale and the characters therein, he forced himself to study every moment, from his first battle in Gallione to Teta's dying breath, with the cold logic with which one might study a long ago chess match or calculate the likely returns of a paltry investment.

Much to his surprise, the picture came through clearly and with surprising speed.

In short, the answer was that true power came from the ability to bend another to one's will, but with the subservient never realizing it...until it was too late.

That had been the power that had kept Delita enthralled to people he believed cared for him and his sister, and which had blinded him to their hidden beliefs that he and his sister were no more than chattel, meant to be used and then discarded once their usefulness had ended or when they became inconvenient. And, Delita would use this power to avenge not only his sister, but all the others of low birth who had lived and died dancing on puppet's strings they could neither see nor touch as well.

A few years ago, Delita would have found such a thing repugnant, to be avoided as surely as poison. Yet, as illusions crinkled away in the fires, Delita looked upon that which had guided him so near to death and saw a weapon with which he could strike back at those who'd robbed him of that which he'd held dearest.

And, not just the elder Beoulves, but all those who, like them, saw their birth as an excuse to exploit and then discard those who were born of more humble sires.

Much to his surprise, Delita had found that he'd had quite a talent for using his new weapon.

And, more importantly, his hard-won wisdom about taking the claims of men at face value had allowed him to discern that, though there were few he could trust, there were plenty he could chivvy this way and that like so many pieces on a chessboard to serve his ends.

That, in turn, led to the second change he had undergone after his rebirth in flames of Zeikden. In order to guide events to their proper course, a certain detachment was needed. People would need to die in order for Ivalice to break her centuries old chains and more than a few who would die deserved life. But, Delita knew that prices of greater blood had been paid for less noble ends, and so decided that those innocents who died would rest easier of their blood purchased a better future for those left behind.

And, that was why Delita had meticulously ingratiated himself to Duke Goltana, holding his tongue even as the delusional man bled his own people dry with over-taxation while Delita had steadily made himself more and more valuable to - and, therefore, more and more trusted by - the Duke of Zeltennia.

Delita had learned well the lesson of just how easily trust could be made into a weapon, and he'd demonstrated this when he, at long last, paired that weapon with one wrought of steel and plunged it into Goltana's chest.

The shock, the disbelief, and the impotent incredulity that one lowly born would dare strike at his supposed betters had been nearly as sweet as the sense that, somewhere behind the veil separating the realms of the living from those of the dead, those who'd lost their lives to Goltana's ambitions were now at peace with their suffering having been avenged.

Would it have been better if those whom Goltana wounded but who'd yet survived been able to witness Delita's judgment, perhaps with the act even garbed in the trappings of so-called 'proper justice'? Would it have been more chivalrous, or more romantic, or some other notion from those days before Ziekden turned such things to ash if Delita had offered the duke a sword and bested him in true combat?

Perhaps, and Delita did not doubt that either Balbanes or Ramza would've attempted one or the other. But, Delita had long since discarded his qualms about how the chains were broken and the cell doors were thrown wide. And, more to the point, Goltana deserved no chance to defend himself after having taking so much from those who were defenseless themselves simply to fuel his own ambitions and greed.

And thus did the third change come into play, namely that nothing must be taken for granted.

The church which had discovered Delita not long after he'd made these revelations had been quite a boon, Delita had to admit that. Though the notion of chivalry and honor had long since been reduced to sick parodies and cruel jokes in his mind, his skill with the blade and his strength of conviction had apparently been enough to call down pillars of ice from the sky and to unravel the minds of the wicked with blasts of holy energy.

That this power came from God was, by then, one more thing Delita no longer took for granted, as was the possibility that one might be speaking truly when they professed their cause to be good and just.

To be fair, however, this revelation had not been purely the product of Delita's newfound insight.

Another holy knight, one Sir Avelyn Wells, had as much as said this when the two had met during Delita's training.

_I don't presume to know how God thinks or what He wants us to do, just that He knows who does and doesn't deserve a cozy afterlife. Those people who say they know rather than believe? They're the ones you ought to be wary of._

Sir Avelyn saying this, and his other criticisms of the institution which had given him his sword and training, had struck a chord with Delita since it partially echoed his own assessment of the Beoulve brothers and how he'd taken them at their word when he should've seen through the deceit.

But, Delita also discovered that telegraphing this wisdom was unwise, for Sir Avelyn's propensity for doing so went a long way towards explaining his tragic 'accident' while acting as an honor guard for the late King Omdoria's funeral procession.

Delita supposed he should've seen that coming, given his own experiences. But, he knew the cynical knight's warnings would provide needed insight. And, as for his death, Delita suspected Sir Avelyn would be mollified by the knowledge that the clergy who'd placed their egos above the life of a loyal servant had paid the price for their hubris.

And, indeed, the hubris of Marcel and his fellows could readily match those of Larg and Goltana. The High Confessor had professed to his co-conspirators, and to Delita personally as the then-Blackram Knight had proven himself more and more valuable, that, with the bloody deeds done, the church would broker peace between the White and Black Lions. But, the echoes of Sir Avelyn had helped Delita to sniff out the lies behind the soft-spoken words.

In truth, the 'peace' the church offered was, as Ramza had said back in Zeltennia, a surrender.

And, he knew that to allow the church to place a puppet upon the throne would mean that Ivalice would merely trade one yoke for another.

Furthermore, as he had said to Ramza before, he was no hound heeling at the church's skirts.

The Church of Glabados, however, was a beast as deadly as either duke, if not more so. Apart from the influence they'd had amongst those Ivalicians who were ill content with the crown and the nobility, whose numbers seemed to grow by the hour, the church also commanded the formidable Knights Templar and an impressive network of spies and informants. And, all this was made all the more deadly by the leadership of High Confessor Marcel, who had no compunction against putting the seeming righteousness of his cause above any commandment against the act of coveting, bearing false witness, or murder.

Even after his ascension to the throne, Delita knew that to try and attack the church openly would achieve nothing save him running a close second to Ramza in the annals of Ivalice's most infamous heretics.

And so, he had been prepared to play the long game, as it were. He knew Marcel would not be fooled as easily as Goltana, but he also knew that Ramza, his best friend from another life and perhaps even in this new life as well, would prove an invaluable asset in the, he'd once presumed, bloodless but dangerous campaign. So long as the former Beoulve remained an envenomed thorn in the church's side, ever present and eternally dangerous, the church could not bring their full weight to bear against their agent in the Black Lion's camp. And, so long as Delita was largely unencumbered by their oversight, he was free to subtly guide events and maneuver people so that, ultimately, the church would find their pieces on the board subverted and Delita's offer of a partnership in Ivalice's governance their only chance of staying the many ruinous revelations which the new king could unleash.

At times, the fact that he was essentially dangling his closest, if not only, friend before the beast's jaws to accomplish this gnawed at him. Yet, Delita also knew that Ramza provided simply too valuable a distraction for Delita's rivals, present and future. And, Delita was all too aware of just how many opportunities Ramza had had to return to his brothers in Igros or even to flee the country and start anew on foreign soil.

That the former Beoulve had done neither, and had instead fought bravely in defense of a land and a people who cursed his name with every breath, sometimes made Delita think that the chivalric code of Balbanes yet survived after all.

And, thus resolved, he had settled in for a lengthy game of political chess with Marcel.

Yet, before the board had even been set, news reached him that the High Confessor was dead.

No less fortuitous, with the church's senior leadership all but destroyed, the only candidate to replace the late Marcel was the Cardinal Ryker.

A lame goblin who'd been dropped on its head one too many times during infancy would've proven a stouter foe.

And, thus, the crown landed upon Delita's brow and, with a suddenness that left even him amazed, the last of the puppet strings about him were cut, finally and forever.

For a time, as sometimes is the case for newly freed captives, Delita had found himself very nearly daunted by how his newfound freedom had caused the world to seemingly yawn wide before him, possibilities beyond counting seeming to flood the horizon, and he'd been almost daunted by the prospect of taking his first step of this new course.

Almost.

Marcel's death, which all the world seemed to lay at Ramza's feet, had left the once mighty Church of Glabados floundering as its failed attempt to install a puppet monarchy was effectively abandoned in favor of a frantic effort to replenish its ranks and to find a new course in the suddenly churning seas of history. With his supposed masters chasing their tails, Delita's plans could now be accelerated beyond expectation. And, with all of his would-be foes amongst the nobility either dead, destitute, imprisoned, or exiled, the culmination of his dream to build a world where they would be no more Tetas callously discarded by the highborn seemed close enough at hand for him to taste.

Not so long ago, he might've found it disappointing that his war had ended so anticlimactically. There were times he had entertained fantasies of having Queen Ruvelia and Prince Orinas publically sentenced to death for the era of carnage, terror, and misery they'd ushered in practically from the moment King Omdoria's frail heart had finally failed him. Another part of him had even privately relished the notion of a long contest of wits subtlety waged against Marcel, and the sweet image of the old High Confessor realizing, very probably on his deathbed, that his puppet had long ago become the master. He had wanted not only to best them, but to make sure they'd know iwho/i had bested them.

Not a noble, nor a prince, nor even a knight, but Delita. Delita, a son of impoverished farmers who had discovered the means to breaks the chains of his birth and forge his own destiny. He had enjoyed such a pleasure during the war when his Blackram Knights had bested a unit of the Hokuten, led by none other than Zalbag Beoulve himself.

Zalbag had recognized Delita instantly, and that had brought Delita a sense of pleasure nearly as sweet as that which he'd enjoyed after winning the battle. It was a moment he privately re-lived every time he passed the portrait of Zalbag, which he had 'magnanimously' commissioned to be painted by a masterful artist from Dorter named Claudio Chiapparini, which now hung with the other portraits that peppered the walls of the castle.

It hadn't taken long for Delita to see why 'Catherine Seymour' swore by the man's talent.

Even as he studied the strong features and spade beard of the late Hokuten commander, Delita could not help but let his mind's eye repaint the image. His imagination, heady with remembered glory and the promises of greater glory yet to come, twisted the severe expression into one of recognition for his small audience. Eyes pulsed wide and jaws parted as surprise and disbelief warred for dominance as, Delita imagined, he recognized the peasant born knight who stood against the keenest of the White Lion's claws. Then, Delita imagined the portrait's face becoming tinged red with anger at the realization that, not only was Delita standing firm against his former master, but was winning.

He was nearly turgid with exaltation as he concluded his imaginings by envisioning Zalbag spluttering in helpless fury, sounding the retreat, and fleeing the battle.

Delita could swear in that moment that he heard his fellow Blackrams, after a moment's disbelief at their victory, letting out a cheer that shook the very stone beneath him.

Envisioning the prospect of repeating the experience with Zalbag - and perhaps Dycedarg, Ruvelia, Larg, and Marcel - had been one of the few indulgences he'd allowed himself during his years of disciplined adherence to his designs. And, he had to admit, being deprived of the chance to make such fantasies real had stirred the anger which he had, otherwise, arduously shackled and pacified.

The tales that had reached him of Dycedarg and Zalbag's deaths were confused and witnesses were scarce, but there seemed to be no shortage of people eager to blame Ramza and, despite some bizarre accounts which Delita had attributed to shock and stress undoing their wits, all the supposed witnesses agreed that the former Beoulve had been present at both scenes. Ruvelia's death, by contrast, had been a fluke, even if Ramza had played an indirect role in it. It was but happenstance, and irony, that the former queen had bribed her way out of her cell in Fort Besselat just in time to be swept away by the floodwaters Ramza had unleashed to prevent the armies of the White and Black Lions from tearing each other apart. Orinas' disappearance had also been a curious whimsy of fate, and speculation on his whereabouts would likely be making the rounds in Lesalia's vast circles of gossip for years to come.

Still, whatever disappointment he'd felt at these occurrences had been brief and, in hindsight, he supposed he should be grateful that he had an unwitting ally so eager to soil his own hands to keep Delita's clean. With the church's leadership in chaos, and with the White Lion's figureheads either slain or missing, what little opposition remained to him had no one they could rally behind. And, with Goltana dead, along with a man who could pass for Orlandu's twin, there was no one else to lead the Black Lion but Goltana's newest and dearest confidant...who, unknown to all, had been the culprit of the two murders.

Everything was going according to plan.

Everything _was_ going according to plan.

And, he reflected as he gazed once more upon the city below him, his travails had certainly been quite climactic enough for the people who now entrusted him with their futures.

He could almost feel their admiring gazes upon him, and he remembered all too well how they had rallied to him seemingly within minutes after his arrival in Lesalia.

Anyone could make the promises he'd made, and some could even deliver on them. But, the true power lay in being able to convince the people that those promises were attainable, to see into their despairing hearts and discern what shaft of light would pierce the gloom, to intermingle just the right amount of the fantastical with the possible to leave the people fascinated with the implications of what he was offering, and, above all, to make them believe that he, and he alone, could make these wonders happen.

And, happen they did.

With a rapidity that astonished even himself, the dark days of poverty and hunger were giving way to bright dawns of prosperity. Once barren fields now yielded bumper crops. Schools for the children of the peasantry, once a notion as mythical as airships, were not only becoming a reality, but becoming commonplace. The demand for labor had allowed legions of Ivalicians to regain their livelihoods and, with them, their homes and their futures.

Everyone knew that it had been Delita had been the one to bring about this succession of miracles.

And, Delita would be taking certain pains to make sure they never, _ever_ forgot.

That was why he had made certain that rebuilding the gates of Lesalia, which had always kept the real world away from this ensconced pearl of decadence, fell ever lower on the list of priorities for the rebuilding of the kingdom. It was also why he'd allowed the shanty towns to remain, for they reminded everyone of those darkest days...and of who had ended them.

They also reminded Delita that, not so very long ago, he had been huddled in such a shack with Teta, penniless and half-starved, and longing for a better life.

Now, for so many, those days of longing were done and the better lives they'd dreamed of were either at hand or drawing nearer with each passing day.

And all it had costed was the life of a queen, a few dukes, and a few clergymen - all of whom were likely to be killed by their own hubris and delusions of grandeur anyway - as well as the reputation of an old general who'd had his fill of war, and the name of a flaxen-haired Beoulve who, like Delita himself, had been quite eager to cut his own branch free of that tarnished family tree.

Delita hardly needed to be an entrepreneur to decide that that was a bargain.

 _Well, that is enough introspection for tonight_ , Delita mused, turning to reenter the castle. _Now, there's one last bit of business to attend to._

As was his custom as he made his way through the halls of Lesalia Castle, Delita spared only a passing glance at the room's copious, if cunningly arranged, finery, instead focusing his attention on those whose paths he crossed. Man and maidservants, guards, cooks, servitors, and other humble folk who kept this mass of marble aglitter stopped, dropped what they were doing - sometimes literally - and bowed, curtsied, or saluted him as he passed. Whereas most of noble or royal blood would've ignored the gesture of respect, considering such as natural and as expected a reaction as the sky brightening as the sun rose, he favored them with a smile, a nod, and acknowledged them by name. For those he'd come to know more intimately since his arrival, he dovetailed the gesture by asking about how their families were doing, whether some tidbit of news which they'd been awaiting had arrived, or even such idle pleasantries as how this evening found them.

It was, he had to admit, a supremely paltry act, for he'd long since been accustomed to exchanging pleasantries with his fellows. However, such a simple act coming from one bearing the trappings of royalty had added yet another layer of mystique to Delita. Undoubtedly, tales of the king who deigned to make such a gesture to those reportedly as far below him as worms were below eagles would twist and turn their way all through the many tangled branches of Lesalian gossip.

After all, if clothes made the man, then such trappings made the exchange of idle pleasantries with those 'below' him transform from a gesture of common courtesy into something far deeper.

By hearing from those who had resided at the bottom of Ivalice's convoluted society, Delita remembered how, through all the myriad plots and counterplots he'd woven, just who he had been fighting for. By hearing that their lot in life had improved, he affirmed that the course he'd plotted to a throne that should've as far out of his reach as the moon had been the right one.

And, more to the point, it subtly reinforced Delita's unspoken and yet thunderous message that he was a different beast entirely from his predecessors and that, as he himself had said, this new era he was ushering in was for all Ivalicians, high and lowly alike.

All had some import in the new king's eyes, all had a role to play, and, more to the point, all could be made to serve Delita's ends.

After opining on the news of those castle inhabitants he knew well and learning the names of those he'd newly met on his short journey, the latter punctuated by a kindly chuckle in response to their stammering, he arrived at the office of his newly appointed chancellor.

Olan Durai, adopted son of the 'late' Count Cidolfas Orlandu.

That had been an irony that ranked right up there with Delita's routing of Zalbag, for there had been more than a few in Zeltennia who'd argued that Olan should share the supposed fate of his allegedly treasonous step-father. And, in the old Ivalice, the monarch thus petitioned would've lost no time obliging.

But, the old Ivalice was gone, and Delita sat benevolently in its place.

And, more to the point, despite being a witness to Delita's less-than-auspicious actions and the chancellor having little love for the new king, Olan had a sharp political mind which was simply too valuable an asset to discard casually.

Besides, Delita doubted Olan would object to his latest assignment, for it involved aiding one to whom both king and chancellor owed their very lives.

Bringing up one fist, Delita rapped at the door. It was well past midnight by then, and he didn't doubt that Olan would be within, wide awake and knowing of only one person would come to see him at this late hour.

"Come in!" a somewhat strained voice called out in reply.

Brushing off the less-than-joyous tone, Delita pulled open the door to Olan's office. Within, behind a stout oak desk, sat the former astrologer, now chancellor, who watched with unblinking eyes as the new King of Ivalice casually strolled in.

The barest flicker of disappointment flitted across Delita's mind at the wary and suspicious manner in which Olan regarded him, but it withered quickly. Nearly every reign in Ivalice was festooned with marriages of convenience, as many being figurative as literal, and Delita supposed he should count himself fortunate that he had but one advisor who nursed ill feelings towards him.

And, in fact, tonight might see even that change just as so much else had in Ivalice.

Standing up from his desk, but pointedly keeping the stout barrier between himself and Delita, Olan gave a perfunctory and overly stiff bow, taking care not to let his eyes stray from those of the king. "Good evening, Your Majesty. How may I be of service?"

Delita smiled briefly, finding the subtle frankness of Olan's gestures somewhat refreshing, before getting to the point. "Thank you, Olan. How are the documents coming along?"

"I'm actually done, just finished before you came in."

"Can you read them to me, please?" Though Delita knew better than to expect Olan to be enchanted by common courtesy dispensed from on high, he also knew that it was to his advantage to continue to ensure that his subjects liked and respected him as much in the future as they did now. Even though the chancellor was not likely to ever fawn over Delita as so many Ivalicians now did, the young king had found the novelty of Olan's continuing skepticism to be wearing thin and he had decided that it would be to his benefit if, at long last, Olan's subdued hostility was cooled.

Permanently.

"Of course, Sire," Olan replied, shaking Delita back to attention. "The first two documents are for the Beoulve siblings. _"Drake Seymour, born year 980 in the village of Nibelheim to Galvin and Elizabeth Seymour. Served four years as a mercenary under Gafford Gaffgarion and two years under Blackram Commander, Baron Grimms. Appointed Duke of Lionel,_ year _1004, by His Royal Majesty, King Delita Hyral the First."_

Even before Olan had finished reading, Delita was nodding his approval. Weakened though it was, Delita could not afford to provoke the Church of Glabados by openly pardoning one of the most infamous heretics of the last century. However, the part of Delita who still remembered his childhood friendship with the young Ramza, and even the Delita who had seen the more mature Ramza as the perfect decoy for his church overseers, found that the state of his onetime friend's uncertain and meager future had left a bad taste in his mouth.

So too, he was forced to admit, had Ramza's obvious displeasure towards the Delita who now sat upon the throne and the trail he'd blazed to reach it. Strangely, though the smoldering condemnation in Ramza's gaze had birthed more than a few sparks of the newly crowned king's ire, something had stopped Delita from simply turning away and leaving his old - and, perhaps, former - friend to his own devices. What it was, he could not say, but he had nonetheless resolved to put the broad powers of his kingship, and the even broader powers of his cunning mind, to work in finding some second chance for his old friend and his newfound family.

In truth, Delita could've achieved the same end with less effort and risk on his part, and he was sometimes perplexed by what had driven him to go to such lengths for Ramza and his friends. Perhaps it was a sense of loyalty to their old friendship. Or, maybe it had seemed a fitting tribute to one who had effectively lost his life in service of a land that reviled him with one voice. Or, possibly, Delita had felt there had been enough lives lost in the war and he'd wanted to give a few back.

Whatever the reason, whereas he could've just as easily let Ramza slip away to some foreign shore or simply had this lifeline delivered via one of the many proxies that populated his network of information, Delita had chosen to personally meet Ramza, alone, and offer the supposed heretic a new name and a new life.

Though he and Ramza had employed very different methods to bring about justice in Ivalice, their goals had ever been the same, and Delita could not suppress the desire to reward his old friend's remarkable courage.

After a moment of introspection, the king nodded his approval, and Olan went on to the second document.

 _"Catherine Seymour, born year 981 in the village of Nibelheim to Galvin and Elizabeth Seymour. Studied white magic at Jerome Monastery, graduated year 999. Appointed Duchess of Lionel,_ year _1004, by His Royal Majesty, King Delita Hyral the First."_

Hearing Alma's new name had also driven home another reason he had kept Olan around, despite the man's subtle hostility. It had, after all, been Olan who had discovered that Ramza and Alma were alive following their reported deaths. Not much surprised Delita nowadays, but that Ramza had outlasted his myriad enemies and that Alma had survived her captivity at the hands of the Knights Templar had achieved that seemingly impossible feat. And, embarrassing though it was to admit, his notions of letting Ramza and the church continue their game of cat and mouse had withered when Ovelia learned of this news and entreated him to aid the fugitive Beoulves and their companions. So, their purposes finding unlikely alignment, Delita and Olan had joined their respective talents in order to find a way to help the remnants of the fallen House Beoulve.

Even after this had been done, the next task for the unlikely partners, whose number would soon include Ramza himself, yet lay ahead.

During one of the missives that had secretly passed from Ramza to his fellows, the disseminating and reporting of which being another joint venture with Olan, Delita had been informed of Alma's pregnancy and of Ramza's entreaty for help finding a husband for his sister. Ovelia had lost no time urging Delita to lend his aid and, in truth, Delita had chosen to do so even before hearing her entreaty. After all, as Teta had often told him, Alma had been very nearly his late sister's only friend as the farmer's daughter had tried vainly to find acceptance in a school meant for highborn ladies. Delita did not doubt for a moment that, had Teta lived, she would want Alma's kindness repaid in her hour of need.

Another part of Delita, however, had to acknowledge the simmering pleasure at the irony that Ramza - noblest of nobles, a knight and commander to match his father, and he who had been the last man standing when seemingly half the world had tried to kill him - was asking someone like Delita for help.

 _But, then again, Alma isn't the only Beoulve to be having children out of wedlock_ he mused, only barely suppressing a snicker at the incongruous image of Agrias Oaks, who would've looked perfectly ferocious had she not been nearly eight months pregnant and looked ready to burst out of her armor.

"Does this meet with your approval, Sire?" Olan asked after he had finished reading the documents he had forged for Ramza and Alma. "If there are any changes you want me to make, please let me know right away."

Delita could not help but notice that Olan's tone had shifted as he'd asked, the stiff and blandly polite quality of his voice giving way to a barely perceptible hint of eagerness, tempered by a trace of grudging admiration. And, it was not difficult to trace the source of this aberration in Olan's typical air of smothered disapproval. Though he had often found himself at odds with the new Ivalician king and his sometimes questionable methods, Delita could tell that Olan was forced to admit, if only to himself, that the new king's plan was ingenious. After all, what better way to protect the Beoulve siblings from the church than to have them hide in plain sight and right under the noses of the Ivalician people as the new Duke and Duchess of Lionel? As king, it was within Delita's power to simply give Ramza and Alma back their original home, but all parties involved in the deception had rejected the notion. And, in truth, Delita could not blame them. Even for him, an outsider amongst the once prestigious Beoulve family, Igros Castle was much too full of memories.

The carefree days of play with Ramza, Alma, and Teta, while all four had been living under the veil that shielded them from the encroachment of harsh truths that had later upended their lives.

Watching Balbanes Beoulve, his benefactor and a father he'd loved nearly as much as the one who'd given him life, waste away from an illness which, he'd learned belatedly, had been the handiwork of his unscrupulous eldest son.

Dueling with Ramza with wooden swords as they fantasized about becoming knights and serving a country which, unbeknownst to them, was all but rotten with corruption, and how they'd looked forward to upholding a chivalric code which few of its supposed adherents even gave lip service.

Teta greeting her brother, newly graduated with highest honors from the Gariland Royal Academy, so filled with delight and pride it was a wonder she didn't burst.

Was it nostalgia that had Delita's eyes threatening to mist at those recollections, or regret at the impending tragedies his naiveté had blinded him to? He did not know. But, regardless, they agreed further that it would have looked far too suspicious to have a young brother and sister the exact same age as the Beoulve siblings move into Igros, especially now that the castle also bore a stamp of infamy on the same order as Riovanes. Nobody wanted the home of an alleged heretic, especially with the discovery of mossfungus toadstools sprouting on Balbanes' grave and the supposed ill omen therein. Of course, enterprising outlaws could just as easily see the value of a deserted castle of such disrepute. Such a fortress would seem as a perfect warren of villainy and wickedness, had it not been taken by the crown.

Delita shook his head, as much to dispel the notion of a reunion with his would-be siblings in their onetime home of Igros as to convey that he found no fault in Olan's work. "No, that is perfect. Thank you, Olan. I'm glad you agree with my plan. And, I know Ovelia is too."

The chancellor nodded.

"I see. And, since you are satisfied with the Seymour records, would you like to hear the pardons I wrote for the others before you sign them?"

"Yes, please."

Since this was going to take some time, Delita pulled out a chair from across Olan's desk and gestured for him to proceed.

Setting aside the documents he had forged for the Beoulve siblings, Olan went on to read the official pardons he wrote up for the rest of Ramza's known companions, starting with the former Knight Templar, Beowulf Kadmus.

 _"I, King Delita Hyral the First, officially grant a full pardon to Beowulf_ Kadmus _, former Captain of the Gryphon Knights of Lionel, expunging from him the brand of heresy placed upon him by Celebrant Bremondt_ Freitberg _."_

Olan paused and Delita nodded his approval, gesturing for him to read the rest of the pardons for Ramza's other known companions. The numerous eyes and ears of the church, more than a few of which Delita had later subverted, had told him quite a few tales about the motley crew Ramza had rallied to his seemingly doomed cause and, Delita had to admit, some of the tales had impressed him. Furthermore, he was uniquely aware that, even with the church weakened, the mark of heresy held with it a promise of death no less certain than imbibing the mossfungus with which Dycedarg had laced his late father's meals. Such a mark upon figures as his and Ramza's former classmates from the Hokuten Academy, as well as Agrias, Meliadoul, Mustadio, and Rad, as well as the Galthana and Murry twins, was enough to upend lives, turning the guilty and the innocent alike into pariahs who might find a blade waiting to pierce their heart lurking in every shadow.

Fortunately, Agrias and Ramza's other companions' alleged heresy was not nearly as well known as that of Ramza himself and, between the former Beoulve's propensity for leaving few if any witnesses and Delita having High Confessor Ryker leveraged to the hilt, it had been easy enough to sow the seeds of reasonable doubt with regard to the guilt of Ramza's fellow outcasts.

Ironically, the only person Delita could not pardon was Ramza himself. Even though he did not have to answer to the High Confessor - indeed, the reverse was closer to the truth these days - Delita was wise enough to know that he still needed the support of the church to maintain order in Ivalice. And, though he knew enough of the late Marcel's sinister secrets to keep his successor meek and compliant, even such a mouse of a man could be made to grow a spine and fight back if prodded too much. Expunging a few alleged heretics where proof of their guilt was scarce was one thing, but pardoning one of the most infamous heretics of the last century, feared and despised by nearly every Ivalician from Igros to Zeltennia, would be enough to unravel Delita's efforts to set Ivalice on a course towards a brighter future. Indeed, he feared that truly absolving Ramza of the false charges levied against him might not be possible in their lifetime. And, even if it was, it could take years or even decades.

An outright pardon would herald a new battle, while Ivalice was still battered and bleeding and which her people could ill afford. And, given the trust the people had in the church after decades of broken promises and abuses by the crown and the nobility, that battle was one Delita did not believe he could win.

At least, not yet.

In any case, giving the Beoulve siblings new identities and a new home was the best he could do under the circumstances. And, considering the alternatives and just what their names had brought them since Balbanes' passing, he doubted either 'Seymour' would object.

After Olan had read the rest of the pardons, he placed them on his desk. "If these meet with your approval, Sire, I will have them sent to you to sign in the morning."

"Yes, they are flawless. Thank you, Olan, that will be all."

With that, Delita rose and turned towards the door. However, he kept his stride short and his pace leisurely, pausing once or twice to brush away some imagined wrinkle in his stately garments.

Behind him, he could almost feel Olan's tense gaze boring into his back and the tension in his very sinew as the chancellor grappled with another of the myriad aftereffects of the War of the Lions...

...one which Delita had had a hand in, and which the new king yet had the power to undo.

At least, vicariously.

Giving a new life to a man supposedly dead was one of the few things genuinely beyond Delita's powers, since it would raise a whole host of awkward questions whose answers would imperil the new king's designs.

Altering just how that supposedly dead man was remembered, however, was a different matter.

 _Three... two..._ Delita silently counted down, very nearly able to hear Olan's tongue straining against the bonds of his mind.

"Sire!" Olan called out, a bit more forcefully than what was considered acceptable when addressing a king. "About...my request."

Through some feat of willpower, honed over this long and grim quest to the throne, Delita managed to keep either a smirk of vindication from crossing his features or a snicker from passing his lips.

"Ah, yes!" he intoned, snapping his fingers as though the matter had been buried under the detritus of a monarch's daily cares and he'd been struggling to unearth it.

Even if Olan wasn't likely to be fooled by the display, it served to shovel still more coal on the flames of the chancellor's eagerness to see his 'request' fulfilled.

"That is a matter of some...sensitivity," Delita warned, his voice dropping to an urgent whisper. "It would be best if it did not spread beyond these walls. So, let us...whisper."

Nodding grimly, and understanding the subtext underlying to quip, Olan readied a spell. As the garbled tongue of magic passed his lips and his gesticulating fingers traced runes in the air, the walls and floor of the room began to shimmer with a luminance remarkably akin to that of the moon which waxed in the dark skies above. This was a spell Delita was familiar with, for they'd made judicious use of it during their unlikely collaboration to aid Ramza and his friends. It was a ward which, simply put, rendered it impossible for any sound from within the room to escape.

Once the luminance had faded, save for the pale glow about Olan's hands, which signified that the ward was in place and would hold for the remainder of the night, Delita plucked the office's key from the desk and used it to lock the door from the inside.

Now, none from the outside would be able to hear their plans and, even if someone tried to enter for whatever reason, the door would not budge.

This meant that the king and the chancellor were now free to discuss unraveling one of the more sordid falsehoods of the War of the Lions.

Of course, it also meant that, if Delita choose this moment to rid himself of Olan and the threat posed by the chancellor's knowledge of the king's sordid deeds, then Olan would have no way to escape or to call for help.

Yet, though surely Olan knew this, and was more akin to a wizard and a politician than a knight, he was still a knight's son and raised by a man whose chivalry and bravery readily matched that of Balbanes himself. Olan saw Delita, knew what he was capable of and that he had effectively locked himself in the lion's den, but he was not afraid. Indeed, he squared his shoulders and leveled his gaze at Delita, not a trace of fear or even a hint of anxiety marring the stony features of a man who was a knight in all but name facing the capricious hand of fate with his head held high.

Considering just how much of Delita's sordid past Olan was privy to, the king found himself impressed by this quiet and yet resonating display of courage.

Impressed enough, in fact, to honor the chancellor's request.

"As you may know," he began, pointedly keeping his voice low despite the sound nullifying wards to convey the sensitivity of the information, "I have an understanding with High Confessor Ryker. In our dealings, I have found him to be very...amenable."

Unbecoming of his office it might be, but Delita could not blame Olan for the derisive snort with which he responded to this pronouncement. Indeed, Delita shared the sentiment. As old and infirm as Marcel had been, and for all his hypocrisy, he had at least been a capable leader and an accomplished tactician. He'd been an ambitious and devious man, unbending in his purpose and who'd come within an arm's length of his goal in turning clergymen into kings of the corrupt land of Ivalice. But, Ryker?

Delita and Olan had seen wet clay less malleable.

"I have...suggested," Delita continued, somehow keeping the corners of his mouth obediently flat at that phrase, "that he issues a statement, announcing that the documents presented to Goltana as evidence against your stepfather were forgeries."

Olan's stoic facade cracked a bit at this pronouncement, and Delita could not help a shiver of delight. Though the 'late' Count Orlandu was very much alive, and surely cared little for his name with his days drawing to a close, his being disgraced by false charges of treason had left a sour taste in Delita's mouth. He had fought alongside Orlandu in several skirmishes and, unlike many other generals on either side of the conflict, Orlandu respected those under his command, valued their lives, and disdained the act of throwing away lives in battles which could not be won. No less impressive, Orlandu's sharply worded assessment of the crumbling situation in Ivalice and his efforts to dissuade Goltana from his ruinous over taxation had shown him to be a man of insight and forethought amongst men who could see nothing beyond the scope of their own petty egos.

That, very likely, had influenced Marcel's orders for Delita to assassinate the count.

It simply would not do if Orlandu had managed to prevail upon the Duke of Zeltennia to treat to peace, and Orlandu had also been conducting his own investigation into the church and its designs. And so, that chivalrous knight had to be toppled.

To that end, Marcel had penned a most contrite missive to Goltana, claiming that he'd discovered a number of Orinias-aligned clergy had been conspiring with Orlandu to oust Goltana from his seat. This had cleared the way for Delita to assume command of the Nanten and take his place as Goltana's new right-hand man...and, eventually, his executioner.

Delita found himself wondering if he would've been able to execute Orlandu if the count had not been rescued by Ramza. Even if he could've bested Orlandu in battle - a prospect, he had to admit, seemed dubious - even contemplating the notion had left a sour taste in his mouth and he'd found killing Orlandu's docile lookalike far more palatable.

Although Orlandu was still alive and had apparently found some peaceful corner of the world to spend his final years, it did nothing to change the fact that he'd been effectively painted as a traitor to his liege lord, first by conspiring against him and then by killing him.

Olan had been disgusted by this turn and had even risked life and limb to clear his stepfather's name, not even quailing when he'd believed his efforts would soon be rewarded by the kiss of Delita's blade. Ovelia, who had heard Olan's tale and regarded Orlandu much like a favorite uncle, had pleaded with Delita to wipe away the false stain upon the count's honor.

And, once again, Delita found himself bowing before Ovelia's heartfelt entreaty.

Besides, as it turned out, the matter was simple enough to rectify.

Orlandu's name had been besmirched by Marcel's 'discovery' of documents accusing the count of treason against Goltana, but an official statement claiming that these had been forgeries would turn the narrative of Orlandu's death on its head. Soon, as was the wont of Lesalian gossip, this new revelation would be spread by thousands and thousands of mouths and be dissected by thousands and thousands of minds, as each and all pondered just how the story of Orlandu changed in light of this new discovery.

As for just how it would change, Delita could think of three likely possibilities.

First, Orlandu had broken out of his cell not to kill the duke but in to plead his case, fearful that only deception or madness could cause Goltana to take at face value an accusation of treason levied against one who'd served him faithfully for over twenty years. This peaceful overture, sadly, had tragically degenerated into violence and cost the lives of both men.

Second, Orlandu, in a fit of righteous anger at being thus insulted by a man who would've lost the war in a matter of weeks if not for Orlandu's leadership and the sacrifices of his troops, broke out of his cell to avenge this affront. The two former comrades had meet, drawn blades, and died following a duel of proportions that would likely grow grander with each telling.

And, third, Orlandu had realized that Goltana was deep in the throes of a madness which, if left unchecked, would run the Black Lion to ruin and the only way to prevent this was to kill Goltana and seize control of eastern Ivalice. Following an escape from the dungeon and a confrontation with Goltana, both of which likely to grow grander with each telling, the deranged duke had been slain, but the tragically heroic count had also died in his valiant effort to spare his people the yoke of Goltana's mad ambitions.

Delita was especially fond of that third possibility, for it appealed to the romantic in him and would likely do the same with the Ivalician people.

And, more to the point, it was the most conducive to his designs.

After all, what else could come next in the story than the peasant born knight who would later become king, discovering the aftereffects of Orlandu's ill-fated gallantry and, in equal parts humility and grief, vowing to honor the count's sacrifice through service to the people for whom he'd given his life.

Olan had surely been following a similar train of thought, for an expected flicker of displeasure crossed his face before giving way to the relief that, given time for the new tale to spread, his stepfather would be remembered as the man of honor he had always been.

And, though Delita once more had to force away any illicit curve of his lip, he also knew that this act would secure Olan's obedience.

Even for a knight's son who was more a wizard and politician, a debt of honor was no less binding than the roots which anchored the mountains into the earth.

With obvious reluctance, Olan bowed once more, less stiffly this time, and Delita knew the gesture to be one of sincere obeisance before the power which would right his stepfather's tarnished legacy just as surely as it would right Ivalice's future.

"Thank you, Sire," Olan intoned, more than a hint of relief seeping into the formal intonation.

"Not at all," Delita replied in a magnanimous tone. "If anything, I should be thanking you for aiding in my plans. I know all too well that you...disapprove of what I've done in order to secure my throne."

"That is true, Sire," Olan replied, though Delita took this admission without so much blinking. "But, if I've learned anything from my time with Goltana, it's that sometimes the best option is the one you dislike the least. Even if my father and I disapprove of what you've done, I can only hope that he, and Ramza and his friends, will rest a bit easier knowing I'm here to keep you honest."

Despite what some might consider to be a veiled threat lurking behind those frank words, Delita gave only a nod of understanding. Indeed, he welcomed Olan's forthrightness and how the former astrologer was resistant enough to Delita's capacity to be charming or frightening as need dictated, as well as how having an ally within the castle walls could help mollify the lingering suspicion Ramza and his friends held towards the new king.

If some occasional harsh words were the price of undiluted counsel and a line of secure communication between Delita and the friends he hoped to win back, then it was a bargain.

"We may not always agree," Olan admitted, and both men were aware of the sheer breadth and depth of the understatement, "but I feel we can still work well together and, I believe we must, for the people's sake as well as the Beoulves."

"Indeed," Delita affirmed, "I will send my...suggestion to Ryker first thing in the morning. For now, I must take my leave of you. The queen is waiting for me."

The chancellor bowed once more to his king. "Good night then, Your Majesty. And…thank you again."

"You're welcome," Delita replied simply as he unlocked the door, returned the key and strode out of the room. "Have a good night, Olan."

"And you as well, Sire."

Once the door was securely shut, Delita allowed his iron resolve to rest and his lips mutinously curved upwards into a broad smirk of vindication.

One of his more recent revelations, and one of the few bits of wisdom worth harvesting from the late Duke Goltana, was that there was a grand difference between an advisor and a sycophant. A dozen of the latter could be bought with but one gil, whereas a true advisor, one who was unafraid to speak his or her mind when a monarch was poised to act upon some ill-considered notion, was worth half a royal treasury.

Olan was, if anything, even more valuable than that.

However, the subtle hostility of the former astrologer had worn thin of late, and Delita had found himself wondering if having any man privy to so many of the new king's secrets was too great a risk to his designs. Though Delita had identified many such people during his quest for the throne, and had dealt with them accordingly, the besmirching of Orlandu and the possible need to eliminate Olan had been amongst the few which truly sat ill upon his shoulders and, surprising himself in the act, he had decided to rectify the situation.

Though leveraging High Confessor Ryker into making a statement which would cast doubt on Orlandu's seeming guilt was a simple enough matter, it posed considerable risks. What if this prodding induced the meek clergyman to grow a spine and actively fight the new king? For that matter, what if word of this manipulation somehow got out and people began to wonder just why their king was pressuring their church to rewrite the story of Orlandu's death? And, on top of all that, there was the possibility that Olan, and Ramza and company, would be unimpressed by the gesture and they would be as leery and suspicious of Delita as ever they were.

Yet, the subtle shift in Olan's stance and tone had been as much a giveaway as if he'd fallen to his knees and begun sobbing in happiness.

Olan would very soon have his stepfather's guilt called into question and, perhaps not long after, his stepfather's name would be cleared.

This, in turn, meant that Olan now owed Delita a debt of honor and, with it, firm obedience to the new king's aims to make sure Ivalice became a land where the tragedy of Teta - and, by extension, Orlandu, Ramza, and their fellow outcasts - would never happen again. Ramza and his friends, in turn, would also owe Delita the chance to prove his word and his worth in fulfilling that promise and all the others he'd made when he first arrived in this once tarnished city of splendors.

He had given his word, and he was looking forward to keeping it.

There was something wonderfully... _refreshing_ about it.

* * *

After he had left Olan, Delita made his way towards the royal apartments, a collection of luxurious chambers used all but exclusively by the royal family, their relations, and personal guests. Situated at the uppermost levels of the castle and festooned with half a dozen balconies from which past monarchs would wave down at the populace - and, Delita considered with equal parts amusement and derision, both parties had to squint to even see each other - they offered a view of Lesalia and the surrounding countryside that could impress even the stoic young king.

But, he still preferred to gaze upon his newfound realm from the most intimate perspective offered by his customary place on the battlements, for he was keenly aware of the difference between viewing and truly seeing.

After all, the former power brokers of Ivalice had viewed much. The fallow fields, the empty markets, the endless line of dead bodies returning from the front, the seething masses of humanity fleeing the war, and the humble Blackram Knight who'd stood faithfully and humbly alongside his liege lord...

...all of them viewed much, their eyes so dazzled by their hunger for glory and power that they saw nothing, especially not the humble son of poor farmers who would topple them.

Delita, by contrast, saw everything. And, when he gazed down at the populace from the comparatively humble perch of the battlements, he saw each and every Ivalician that smiled up at him just as surely as he smiled in reply, honored and humbled by their adulation...

...and watching for any whose cheers seemed a bit too subdued or their postures a mite too tense.

Delita knew all too well how people could be beguiled by a sibilant tongue and some cunning words, for he had been on both ends of that particular blade.

And, whereas past rulers had simply viewed the crowds who assembled before them with eyes either alight with false pride when the crowds were docile but silently seething, or with incredulity and incomprehension at their anger, he saw clearly those who assembled before him in gratitude for guiding Ivalice in a new direction, just as surely as he let them see that he would always be there to watch over them...

...and to spy out any potential troublemakers in their midst.

But, the notion of sizing up a crowd and picking out any false well-wishers had vanished from his mind just as the sun had vanished beneath the horizon. And, in this chamber at this moment, there was only one he wanted to view or see. And, the anticipation of seeing his queen was enough to allow his still young heart to slip its leash and thunder against his ribs. Arriving at the door, an ornate affair with lengths of gold that wriggled and twisted in intricate patterns, he gently rapped upon it with his knuckles.

"Ovelia, may I come in?" he asked, unable to keep a playful undertone from his voice.

"Yes, of course, my king," his wife answered from the other side, though her voice was slightly muffled and Delita could not help but notice that his playful undertone had not been reciprocated.

His brow furrowed for a moment at this, but then he waved it aside. He was uniquely aware of just how much Ovelia had on her mind.

Such as, for instance, how she might not be Ovelia at all.

Granted, Delita had never been able to confirm Vormav's claims that the true Princess Ovelia was long dead and that the girl he'd spirited away from Orbonne Monastery was merely a double, but it hadn't taken long for Delita to realize that Ovelia herself believed the late Templar's claims and that she'd been shocked to her very core.

And, that was _before_ her rather spectacular breakdown in the ruins of the Zeltennia church.

He had chanced upon her as she huddled within the rubble of her oasis from the ever deepening horrors of the war and the 'protection' of Duke Goltana, and, in an ill-considered attempt at levity, he'd given a mocking bow and several teasing honorifics.

It still surprised him how her outburst, and the misery which had burst forth from her lips after, had shaken him.

In fact, as the implications of Vormav's claims continued to tease at the back of his mind, he could not help but be reminded of Teta. His beloved sister, not unlike Ovelia, had unexpectedly found herself spirited across the gulf that separated the high and the lowly in Ivalice and, the kindness of Balbanes Beoulve and his younger children notwithstanding, she'd found little welcome on the far side. In some of her letters, probably the only thing that had kept Delita sane amidst the relentless scorn he'd received at the Gariland Royal Academy, she'd even confessed that, as grateful as she was to Balbanes and as much as she loved Alma, she still felt like an outcast in her new home and missed the humble farm of their birth.

Ovelia's story, if anything, had struck even closer to the bone. After all, even if they have nothing else, an outcast still had the memory of where they came from and what they'd left behind.

Ovelia didn't even have that much.

This, the young king had to admit, had caused him to regard her as the perfect pawn. Sequestered almost since birth at one monastery or another, she had been woefully ignorant of the world she'd only seen framed in the stark stone windows, and her only companions in that lonely fastness of prayer and contemplation had been Father Simon and the other monks, all of whom had about as much malice or deceit in them as a terrier. Between this long isolation and her naiveté, not to mention how Vormav's claim had left her questioning her entire life, she was confused, angry, lonely, vulnerable, and desperate for someone she could trust and who could lend an ear to her sorrows.

She was, in a word, susceptible.

That susceptibility, and how it could make this mewling pawn of other men into the queen on the chessboard of his ambitions, had done much to inspire the impassioned speech he'd given about rewriting the cruel truths of the world and bringing about a kingdom worthy of her. A platitude it might've been at the time, but, as he considered how such a world might've seen Teta still alive and at his side, as well as the countless, nameless others who'd have also been spared much suffering in such a world, he found himself seduced by his own designs...

...though, ultimately, Ovelia herself seduced him far more deeply.

She was an incredibly beautiful woman, possessed of such a kindness as he'd once believed had died with Teta, and her melodious voice had haunted his thoughts even when she was screaming at him to unhand her on that rainy night at Orbonne so long ago.

Even after Delita had realized that he was becoming more and more enchanted by the gentle woman, and realizing that such might give him a vulnerability his designs could ill afford, he also realized that her conquest of his heart was a thing swift and certain.

Now, he'd not only wanted to create the world he'd spoken of to Ovelia, he'd wanted her to be at his side through the labors, the tribulations, and the triumphs of creating that world.

And so, seemingly a heartbeat after the signing of the treaty which ended the War of the Lions at long last, he had taken a knee and asked for her hand.

After dispelling a rather lurid recollection of their wedding night, he shouldered his way through the door, recalling the image of her at her coronation and reflecting that she'd looked every inch the queen she was. He had no doubt that her radiance was no less a sight to behold now.

 _Assuming, of course, I can actually see her in this blasted menagerie_ , he mused, the barest hint of frustration intruding upon his fountaining desire.

The royal bedchamber, reportedly the very place of Ovelia's birth as well as that of several of her supposed forefathers, had always occupied the pinnacle of decadence in the bejeweled crown that was Lesalia Castle, adorned with the finest ornamentation of every description. Purveyors of pelts, portraits, ornamental suits of armor, furnishings, tapestries, paintings, sculptures, ornamental weapons, vases, flowering plants, golden and gilded ornamentation, and every other beauteous trifle considered it a mark of pride that would have them smiling unto the grave if one of their pieces was considered worthy of a place in this chamber, and it had been testing the thin line between heart-stopping magnificence and stomach turning excess even at the best of times.

Yet, not long after Ovelia had moved in, she had taken the already lavish chamber and transformed it into a masterpiece of confusion.

Where once the various decorations had been nearing the point of excess, albeit cunningly arranged as to bedazzle rather than repulse, so many new sculptures, freestanding paintings, pedestals holding aloft flowering plants, and even tapestries hanging from the rafters rather than the walls had found their way into the chamber that it seemed more akin to a forest of profligacy, so thick that it was literally impossible to travel from one end of the room to the other in a perfectly straight line.

 _I don't envy whoever's has to dust all this..._ Delita snickered, a smirk forcing away what otherwise might've become a disdainful curl of the lip.

A great many people deserved Delita's disdain, and many of them had discovered just how deadly it was to raise his ire, but he would never show even a hint of that to his beloved queen.

And, if growing up amidst the stark and colorless stone of monasteries had given her a desire to witness and experience all the beautiful and the colorful things she'd been deprived of by her un-chosen life of poverty and piety, then he'd happily let her turn the entire tower into her personal gallery.

 _I might have to if she keeps this up..._ he mused with self-deprecating humor as he brushed aside a tapestry hanging in the middle of the room and narrowly avoided getting it caught on a halberd held in the iron grip of an ornamental suit of armor.

Eventually, he managed to wade through the menagerie and, as he had expected, found his wife and queen standing on the balcony, the doors linking the stone perch to their chambers thrown open to admit the cool evening air. Her back was to him as he approached, her gaze fixed upon the stars as whisperings which escaped his ears passed her lips.

Another prayer for those for whom a better life after war's end still proved elusive, he supposed. Again, it was no surprise, for she had been in the proverbial thick of it when he'd arrived in Lesalia, lending her healing magic to the wounded and offering what comforts she could to those who were in their final hours when Delita had arrived. The young king had found it truly remarkable that, for all her troubles, not one of her many prayers were for herself, but always for the wounded, the lonely, the outcasts, and the poor in spirit.

Not so long ago, she had qualified as all four; but Delita would ensure that she never suffered such anguish again.

Her kingdom, _their_ kingdom, was coming to life before their eyes and, given time, it, and she, would outshine the sun.

Everything was going according to plan.

Taking off his red robe and somehow managing to toss it on the bed without knocking over a dozen or so intervening ornaments, the new king quietly approached and embraced his lovely young wife from behind.

"It's done," he said. "I have made the proper arrangements to protect Ramza, Alma, and their friends."

It might've been Delita's imagination, but he could've sworn that her whisperings, though still unintelligible, had begun to tumble from her lips much more rapidly. But, again, he waved away the oddity for, as he gently turned her to face him, his senses were overwhelmed by the sensation of her breasts swelling against his chest.

"I know…," Ovelia said quietly, and Delita could not help but notice the sag in her slender shoulders.

"My love, what is wrong?" Delita asked, his customary reserve nearly undone by her apparent displeasure.

"It's just...," Ovelia trailed off, and Delita could swear he'd drawn in a breath and held it as he awaited her word. "I don't understand why you did not just simply pardon Ramza. You told me you can leverage the new High Confessor into claiming that the documents implicating Count Orlandu were forgeries."

"And, so I shall. In fact, I just spoke to Olan and we have agreed to put that plan into action tomorrow."

A smile, but one lacking its customary luster, tugged at the corners of Ovelia's mouth, causing Delita's mouth to compress into a thin grim line as perplexity threatened to lay low his previously high spirits. Something was wrong, that much was obvious, but just what that might be proved elusive.

Ovelia's would-be jailers, the duke and queen who'd sought her death as well as the duke and high confessor who'd sought to put her on the throne as their puppet, were all dead. Orinias, her only true rival for the throne had vanished. The years of war, hunger, poverty, and chaos in Ivalice had ended and were giving way to a dawn of peace and prosperity. Lowborn children - amongst whom Ovelia herself might very well be counted - now had the previously unheard-of chance to learn to read, write, work numbers, and other skills that would allow them to escape their once nigh-predetermined destinies of impoverished drudgery. His brokering of settlements between those displaced by the war and those who'd suffered from the arrival of the huddled masses on already overcrowded shores had brought about reconciliation where once there'd been only violence. He had even undertaken a potentially hazardous gamble simply to exonerate several people she loved and who'd been falsely accused of heresy and treason, not to mention helping to find a husband for a friend of hers who'd fallen pregnant out of wedlock.

He had done this for her. He had done _all_ of this for her! Everything he had done had been _for her!_

What lacked?

"If you could force the High Confessor to recant a statement from his own office, and issue pardons for so many alleged accomplices of a heretic, then why not pardon the heretic himself?" Ovelia asked, her words taking on a note of unadulterated pleading. "Why not do that instead of setting up a façade for him as the new Duke of Lionel, and with Alma as Duchess? For that matter, why maintain the illusion that Alma is dead? It's no secret that coffin under her grave is empty."

Delita sighed. He would've happily traveled to Ordalia armed with no more than his disarming smile or ransacked the Burgosa Sea for pearls if she had but asked him. Yet, she had to beg the one thing that truly lay beyond his power...

...at least, for the moment.

"My love, if it was that easy, I would have already done it," he admitted, his gaze drifting away from hers. "Leveraging Ryker was a simple enough matter; a lame goblin who'd been dropped on its head one too many times in infancy would have proven a stouter foe. And besides, Marcel was a man whose word most would simply take as gospel."

Given that what remained of Ovelia's tattered faith had been one of the few pillars that kept her standing following Vormav's revealing her supposedly fraudulent bloodline, Delita instantly regretted his irreverent choice of words even before he saw her eyes narrow into daggers.

"Forgive me, I spoke thoughtlessly. But, as I was saying, Marcel was overconfident in the weight of his words and took little pains to fabricate evidence of Orlandu's guilt. I need only pressure Ryker to 'discover' some inconsistencies as he took stock of his new office and its affairs. What's more, few reliable witnesses can, or will, testify to the guilt of Agrias and Ramza's other companions. Ramza, sadly, is another story entirely. His alleged crimes are simply too well known, and you know how badly his reputation has been tarnished. Even I can only do so much to help him, and it might be a long time before that changes. Yes, I can leverage Ryker to make him cooperate with us, but it would not do if I pushed him too far and he, or his successor, grew a spine and decided to oppose us. Even if we came away victorious from such a schism, it would be a grave setback to everything we've achieved and plan to achieve in the future. What's more, news of Alma's being taken in for 'questioning' at Riovanes has leaked out, and no one sincerely believes she could've survived the Horror. Her turning up, unharmed, would raise too many awkward questions."

This was the truth, for Delita had already explored all other options that were open to him or likely to be in the near future, and none could see Ramza getting his old life back soon, if ever. But, that did not stop Ovelia's eyes from misting, nor did it still the strangely incongruous wringing of her hands. His already wavering spirits beginning to sink, and his patience taxed by this cool response to his carefully executed labors, Delita, in an uncharacteristic show of rashness, grasped both of her shoulders.

Ovelia stiffened in his grip, a gasp tearing free of her mouth and her eyes going wide.

Delita's hands sprung away as if the pure alabaster of her skin had burned them.

The new king regarded his new queen for a long moment, the perplexity which had been swirling between his ears threatening to build into a full-fledged storm. With an effort, he told himself that Ovelia was merely overwrought from all that had happened and she'd merely been startled by his boldness...

...except, he remembered taking far greater liberties with her without such a reaction.

When he'd feigned being severely inebriated so that they might adjourn to their wedding bed all the sooner, her incredulity at tricking their guests in such a manner had been decidedly short-lived.

"Don't you think having him and his sister living under new identities is better than them having to flee to a foreign land, and having to live in hiding for the rest of their lives?" he asked rhetorically, struggling to regain his mental equilibrium, and he could see Ovelia's brow furrow as she weighed that prospect. "Even if they found a quiet corner on some foreign shore, would you wish for them to live as outcasts, always having to hide their identities and cut off from what few friends they have left? More to the point, would you want Alma's child to live like that? Always alone, and with all the wonders of the wide world so tantalizingly close and yet so far away? At least this way, they can stay in Ivalice and live in peace, right under the people's noses. And besides, don't you want to see Alma again? You did say you two were very close and you haven't seen her in such a long time. "

The queen's expression turned pensive as she mulled over what he had said, in particular how the bleak image he'd painted echoed her own life of solitude and isolation prior to their less-than-auspicious meeting. After a long pause, she gave a resigned nod of assent.

"Perhaps you are right," she admitted, so softly that he barely heard her.

"Believe me, I like this no more than you," he replied, a heavy sigh coming unbidden at the depth and breadth those few, small words could not hope to encompass. "But, at least this will give Alma a chance to find a husband to help raise her child. And, I don't doubt for a moment that you want to see Agrias again, and meet her and Ramza's child as well."

This, finally, brought a bell-clear laugh to Ovelia's lips and, as surely as if he'd discovered an oasis after being lost for days in the Zeklaus Desert, he drank deeply of that sound and felt his spirits rising once more.

"Indeed," Ovelia snickered, smiling at long last. "I still can't believe she and Ramza fell in love. Oh, I suspected he liked her; you should've seen the way his gaze always lingered on her when he thought no one was looking. But, I never would've imagined her liking him back. She was always very kind to me, but so distant with everyone else. It does my heart good to think how she must've changed since then."

"I still don't understand how you didn't notice she was with child when she visited you in Zeltennia," Delita quipped, unable to bite back a burst of hearty laughter. "With the way she looked, I half expected her to be carrying twins. Maybe triplets."

"Well, maybe I did notice how much she was showing. But, unlike _some_ people, I considered it poor form to point it out."

Given how rare a sight a pregnant woman would be in the remote monasteries where Ovelia had spent her childhood, Delita had certain doubts; but he refrained from voicing them. Still, he could sense that his words had eased his wife's concerns, at least for a time. Come morning, some new matter might arise to intrude upon their bliss, forcing still more sacrifices for them to make upon the altar of duty as they tended to the country and the people whom both hoped to guide to a better future.

But, for now, Delita was eager to put what hours he had alone with his wife to good use.

"I am glad you understand," he intoned, his voice turning husky with desire. "And, even if I can't exonerate Ramza now, maybe I'll find a way in the future. Please, just trust me."

Delita knew his grasp on Ramza's trust was fragile, and he had been more than a bit shaken at the venom in Ramza's words and the strange desperation with which Delita had pled his case to his old friend.

Even the notion of similar venom passing Ovelia's lips was enough to make his heart lurch.

Ovelia nodded as she turned to her husband. "I do," she replied, though her voice wavered slightly. "And, you're right. I understand if this is truly the best you can do for them."

"That might yet change," Delita affirmed, surprised at the feeling of relief which accompanied his words. "But, that's a matter for tomorrow. Right now, my mind's on tonight."

If his husky undertone hadn't been enough of a hint, the naked desire in his eyes certainly had. Looking for all the world more like a shy maiden than a queen, Ovelia gulped audibly, her cheeks turning scarlet as Delita, his breath going short and hard, began to tug at the yards of fabric that enshrouded her form. His mind clouding with desire, he found the intricate laces and straps too confounding and had been ready to tear them off. The ever-burning flame of his hunger for revenge against his would-be puppet masters and the ecstasy of watching their lives crash down around them had become a pale flame compared to the conflagration of passion that roared to life as his recollection of the first time they'd made love came back to him.

Though it might tarnish his image if it became widely known, Ramza and Alma were not the only ones to have bedded their respective loves without observing the ceremonies first.

Not long after he'd made his vow to build Ovelia's kingdom, and when he'd realized that his fascination with her was becoming an obsession which sent his heart racing and set his blood afire, he'd found himself passing a restless night spent contemplating how to coax a certain angel into his bed.

He had hoped a walk might cool his desire enough that he could get some sleep and, by a most ironic whimsy of fate, he'd collided with the very woman whose maidenhood he'd come to covet more than the crown.

He honestly had no idea which of them had initiated the kiss, but it hardly mattered. He desired her, she tempted him, and the pair promptly ducked into his chambers and cast sleepwear and propriety alike to the wind.

He remembered how she had nearly stopped his heart when she had surprised them both with her stroking him near to a frenzy, how her breasts had swelled and firmed under his caress, the flood of need welling up in both of them as his tongue probed the inside of her mouth. He remembered further how she had opened her body and heart to him, offered him her soul, and how his name had thundered between their melded lips as their lovemaking had reached the crest of passion and then erupted into uncontrollable ecstasy.

Belatedly, he realized that that night was not repeating itself.

In fact, the opposite was closer to the truth.

Though he eventually got one hand past the damnable web of threads and found the supple mounds, the gasping which parted his wife's lips sounded far removed from those she'd rasped out when they'd copulated in the past. What's more, Ovelia seemed to pull away from his furtive kisses too soon, sometimes even before his tongue could lance across the threshold of their melded lips. She did not purr at his touch, but instead flinched and started as if being probed with needles. Frustration threatening to supplant his desire, he drew her in to trace a line of kisses up and down her slender neck and collarbone, only for her to suddenly bring up one hand and shove him back, nearly sending him sprawling.

Delita let out a snarl, desire and anger alike flaring in his breast, but one look at his wife brought him up short.

Partially disrobed and breathing hard, harried and struggling to protect her modesty, he saw nothing he had not seen the first time they had made love in Zeltennia Castle.

What he did not see then, but which he saw now, was the fear in her eyes.

His desire cooling as if a pail of frigid water had been tipped over his head, he recoiled at the dread in her wide eyes, bewildered.

This was not the first time they'd made love. In fact, by the time they were married, their dalliance in Zeltennia Castle had been repeated several times. And, each time, he had gazed into those sky blue orbs and seen the seeds of trust and affection budding and then flowering as he, and he alone, saw past the trappings of her supposed lineage and saw the lonely vulnerable woman underneath and offered companionship rather than blind obeisance.

She had once feared him - after all, they'd met when he'd abducted her against her will - and Delita had made no secret that he could be deadly when provoked.

Yet, he'd only used his sword and skill to protect her and their shared dream. He had used both to beguile those who would threaten them into his traps and then pass sentence for their long misrule and the suffering they'd caused. He had schemed, plotted, lied, and killed for her.

And, before that thought had even been completed, he realized that he'd had his answer.

Ovelia knew what he had done.

And, in a moment of horrifying clarity, so did Delita.

After the flames of Zeikden had burned away the adopted son of Balbanes Beoulve, Delita's path towards revenge had, inevitably, led him to courses of action which, before his former life had vanished in that explosion, he would've abhorred. And, as he had watched Sir Avelyn Wells unwittingly sign his own death warrant with his loose tongue, and realized what was in the offing, Delita had coolly weighed the value of the man's life against what he sought to achieve by toppling the order of Ivalice which had caused Teta's death.

It had been no contest.

And, that had become a matter of course on the trail he'd blazed to the throne. What's more, Sir Avelyn had not been the first good man whose demise Delita had deemed a necessary sacrifice and allowed to happen.

There had been many. In fact, there had been so very many.

Striking Goltana outright, though tempting, would have been suicidal. So, he had allowed the delusional duke to raise taxes to ruinous heights and bleed his people dry, uprooting lives and ending others, so that the grave Goltana was unwittingly digging himself into would be deep enough.

And, sure enough, there'd not been one earnest tear after he'd run the duke through and toppled him into that chasm of ignominy he'd dug for himself.

At times, the knowledge that people were being bled dry of coin and starving in the interim had troubled him, but he had told himself time and again that such was for the greater good and that those who'd died would rest easier knowing their blood purchased a better future for those left behind. And, eventually, he had made himself believe it.

This belief had been the cornerstone of his success, and it had enabled him to bring down Duke Goltana and end his long misrule and, later, to set a better one in its place...

...but, it had also enabled him to betray Orlandu, a man he had respected and admired, by framing him for a crime he did not commit. It had enabled him to dangle Ramza, a man to whom he'd professed to be a friend, before the jaws of the church as well as White and Black Lion alike. It had enabled him to coerce service from Olan, a man whom Delita considered a man of honor as well as an advisor of priceless wisdom and inestimable worth. And, it had enabled him to turn a blind eye to the thousands of sons and daughters Goltana had sent to their deaths and the many others who'd starved under his heel while Delita had stood idly by and waited for his unknowing rival to dig himself a deep enough grave.

Delita found his vision swimming as the wall he'd built, separating his emotions from the gruesome reality of what he'd done, suddenly shuddered, buckled, and then came crashing down.

As if the barrier which had held in abeyance the infinite nightmares of the dark hours had crumbled with it, his vision began to blur as strange sights and sounds boiled forth from some previously unknown abscess in his heart. They came at him, stinging like dragonflies and then flitting away as more soared in to renew the assault.

There was a jumble of voices, some he knew and many he did not, echoing through his head as he vainly clapped his hands over his ears. Their words were barely intelligible, but their tones said more than enough.

There was accusation, condemnation, and mockeries directed at the greater good he had used to rationalize his actions.

Some phrases, which carried the voice of Algus, the Limberry noble he'd killed for shooting Teta dead so long ago, stood out from the rest. With all the derision he'd possessed in life, the disgraced Limberry noble had asked just what truly separated them.

And, Delita was left struggling for an answer.

Algus may have been a cold-blooded bastard, callous towards all he saw as his inferiors, but his many effronteries had been against strangers who would not have given a second thought to killing him.

Delita, by contrast, had visited some of his most egregious acts upon people he had known, even people he'd professed to care for. No less horrible, he had known that Goltana's people were starving under his misrule and had never used the duke's growing reliance upon him to curtail the madness.

Instead, he had allowed those thousands upon thousands of lives to be casually discarded like so many pawns on a chessboard...

...not unlike those he had conspired with and against as he ascended to the throne after leaving such carnage in his wake.

And, more than the killing was the harm to the living, which a phantasmal voice eerily like Zalbag's promptly lost no time enumerating.

Apart from framing Orlandu, he had time and again dangled Ramza before the jaws of the worst of church and state alike. And, though the pair had never been enemies, and had even done battle alongside one another during the war, the aid he'd offered had been scant. No less troubling, a hundred alternatives to how he'd dealt with his onetime friend suddenly flared to life before his mind's eye.

Would it have been the better course if he'd joined Ramza's cause outright, or convinced Ramza to join his? Could he have used the boot heel he had firmly pressed on Ryker's throat to grant Ovelia's wish and see Ramza exonerated after all? Could he have used his vast skills in trickery to create the illusion that Ramza was, in fact, dead, so that the 'Seymours' could have a bit more peace of mind?

Might he have done more for Ramza than allow the supposed heretic to soil his hands so that Delita's were kept clean?

As if in defiance of his musing, he spied his hands and saw them drenched in sticky crimson.

Delita was stunned. Stunned with horror, stunned with revulsion, stunned with disbelief.

It was supposed to be over and done with. The blood that was shed, the lies that had been uttered, the lives that had been upended, all of it was supposed to have brought into being Ovelia's kingdom. A kingdom she had wanted to build with him, one where their miseries would never be visited upon others, where the trampling of the poor would be reduced to yet another ugly chapter in long ago histories, where every life had value, and where birth or wealth no longer determined one's fate from cradle to grave.

A kingdom made all the richer by their love.

Everything _was_ going according to plan!

Yet, as he recalled Ovelia's odd behavior and the cacophony of realization continued, he realized that even their love had not gone unsoiled.

She had seen the treachery and blood that he'd used as the stones and mortar with which to build their kingdom. She had heard him admit to Goltana's murder, even gloat about the deed. She had heard him admit that he would use aught and all to build his legend.

 _His_ legend.

Had she wondered if, like Goltana, she too would meet an untimely end once she was no longer useful to him?

Was she in the thick of the mass of the hungry and the poor because or her generous spirit, or so that he'd have all those bodies to wade through and all those witnesses to spy him if he did the bloody deed? Had this sudden obsession with filling their chamber with profligacy been her developing a taste for lavishness, or had she been planting a forest of sorts in which she could evade him once he discarded the pretenses in favor of the blade?

Had she been praying for those whose fortunes were yet meager, or for protection against him?

Part of him, the part that had come to view Ovelia as a kindred spirit in a cruel world, who had first lusted after her and then found himself unable to contemplate living without her, railed against the notion with terrific fervor...

...but, another part of him had very different sentiments.

It was the part of him that had turned a blind eye and a deaf ear to the defeated Algus's pleas for mercy and wrung his defenseless foe's neck. It was the part of him that had reveled in the expression on Goltana's face as the duke slid off of Delita's blade. It was the part of him that had dubbed all those nameless misfortunate people who'd died under Goltana's misrule as necessary casualties in his personal war and, eventually, grew numb to their plight.

It was the part of him that flagrantly admitted that he would not consider killing Ramza too high a price to pay in order to realize his ambitions.

That voice, that cold implacable voice that had spoken that same ominous warning to Ramza in Zeltennia, that had chided Olan and Ovelia when they lambasted his deeds, and which he'd used to tell himself that such a design as his, and the greater good it would accomplish, served amply to justify whatever means he deemed necessary.

That same voice now asked him if Ovelia's continued presence might become a threat to that greater good.

Unconfirmed it might be, but Vormav's claims that she was an unknowing fraud masquerading as a princess long dead were certainly plausible, and might even jeopardize his kingdom.

 _His_ kingdom.

Between the likelihood that she would not be able to still her tongue, and that his scattered and broken enemies might rise again if armed with even a drop of her knowledge of him, the cold voice suggested that it was time for yet another member of the royal family to meet with tragic misfortune.

And, with all this rubbish about, he had both a weapon and a plausible explanation near to hand. It was a story that very nearly wrote itself: the queen had been overzealous in amassing her menagerie of beauteous trifles and one of the heavier pieces had toppled over and caved in her skull.

A firm grip on one of the smaller sculptures, compact but built of marble solid enough to dent iron, and one solid swing would...

 _What am I saying?!_ he silently screamed, his lungs seizing up so violently that the world wavered and began to darken.

Blinded by horror at the end result of the tragedy he had wrought, at what he had become, how he had eclipsed the cruelties of Ruvelia, Larg, Goltana, and Marcel all, and how, in building his legend, he had instead authored a horror story, his vision turned inward and went dark.

He neither felt his feet give way beneath him, nor heard the clatter as he collided with some trifle or another on the way down.

He did not see Ovelia's still wringing hands draw forth the same dagger Agrias had given her, nor did he see her return it to the soft darkness of her sleeve after a moment's hesitation.

All he saw, all he heard, and all he knew was a question, implacable and unanswerable and yet inescapable, that thundered through his mind.

His war against the rule of the highborn which had cost Teta her life had been won...

...but, had he paid the price with his soul?


	14. Afterword: A Note from Falchion1984

Hey there. I am Falchion1984 and, with the consent of my friend and co-author Elly3981. I wrote this interlude which give us a picture of Lesalia before, during, and after the War of the Lions. So, do I know my stuff, or do I know my stuff, or do I know my stuff? *skitters to one side as a sandbag 'mysteriously' falls from the ceiling* Geez, the tiniest bit of grandstanding, and people start grousing! Seriously though, I hope this "interlude", which broke any and all length-associated confines of its trope less than halfway through, drew you in. I hope the splendor of pre-war Lesalia made you ooh, ahh, and feel the contagion of affluence's sedate effects, only to be roused back to wakefulness by the implication that things changed, and for the worse, when the War of the Lions began. I hope you gasped, shuddered, and repeatedly said "oh my!" when the mutual anger and depredations between castaways and natives alike were enumerated. And, I hope you breathed a sigh of relief and gave a weary sort of smile when peace returned and, on its heels, reconciliation between contrite castaways and natives who, as sometimes happens, found people who could be trusted in the very, very last place they'd think of looking. Heck, I even hope you inexplicably gleaned that I wrote a good chunk of this late at night with Modest Mussorgsky's "Night on Bald Mountain" blaring on my speakers...and how bad an idea that is when you plan on sleeping. And, yes, Modest really is his first name.

And, Delita? I hope I kept you all in suspense as to what manner of king he will be. Every one of his honorable, magnanimous, or hither-to-unheard-of-but-lovable deeds is counterbalanced by a not-so-savory ulterior motive. I also hope you see how, since falling in love with Ovelia was most likely not in his original plan, this created a conflict he himself was unaware of. His the-ends-justify-the-means and my-greater-good-is-all-and-all-else-is-expendable methods of thinking and acting proved a most insidious trap...for him. By placing what he wants on so high a pedestal as the greater good, and considering no means or methods as being wrong, immoral, amoral, or otherwise unacceptable, he had lost sight of both the people he was trying to help and, in a manner of speaking, made himself into something even worse than the nobles he scorned. After all, making sure Goltana dug himself a deep enough grave meant knowingly allowing many thousands of people to be displaced and/or to starve. That his qualms about this became fewer, less, and then none make the act all the more hideous to his newly cleared eyes. And, if anything, this makes him too akin to the nobles in that he spent lives that were not his to spend, all while professing to be acting in their best interests.

Simply put, Delita had fallen into the trap of paving his road to hell with good intentions and, quite a distance down that road, he has been roused from that trance by seeing with new eyes - Ovelia's eyes, in a manner of speaking - what he has done and what he has become. And, he is horrified. Of course, this opens a whole host of questions. How can he break free of this trap he unwittingly dug for himself and dove into? In fact, can he? And, even if he can, what will become of his kingdom and his marriage both in the interim and afterward? And, if he fails, then what? Will he fall into his older methods and embrace his darker nature? A part of himself did consider the possibility that Ovelia had become a liability and treating her accordingly. And, for that matter, what will be the effect if Izlude and the Pisces stone cross Delita's doorstep while he's in either a horror-induced torpor or, worse, if he's wholeheartedly embraced his darker nature?

Now, just for the record, I am not saying that Delita is evil, straight-up. What I am saying is that, as a man capable not only of muzzling his own conscience, but doing so often and effectively and, thereby, allowing himself to act in the absence of moral or ethical inhibitions for ever lengthening periods of time, has a great capacity for evil. And yet, Delita stopped himself from trying to kill Ovelia, albeit with desperate strength and only after belatedly realizing what was happening to him. Thus far, he's been walking the narrow line between good and evil, taking along his sincere desire to improve life for the common Ivalician, his love for Ovelia, his wish to do right by Ramza, and, on the opposite end of the spectrum, his lust for revenge, his hunger for vindication, and his belief that no means of achieving what he wants are forbidden. Now, however, something has got to give. But, what?

In truth, Elly3981has already made up her mind on that account. But, I see no reason for the readers to know that before we have to tell them. Why? Well, Delita isn't the only one with a great capacity for evil. Bwahaha! Bwahahahaha! Bwahahahhahahahha! Hahahaha! Heheheheheheh! Yehahahahahaha! *stops laughing and dives out of the way as another sandbag "mysteriously" drops from the ceiling* Oh, for the love of-! Well, that is my interpretation of Delita, as written by myself. I hope it lends additional depth, suspense, interest, and even some food for thought to the story. Keep reading and, more to the point, keep reviewing. The number of hits on a counter doesn't do nearly as much for an artist of any sort as do a few words of honest appreciation and/or some constructive advice from a fellow artist looking to help his or her fellows become even better. Thank you for letting me ramble and...actually, no, I'm not done. You see- *jumps to safety after another sandbag 'mysteriously' falls from the ceiling* Damn it all! Fine. Read, review, and, whoever's doing that, my boot heel and his ass have an appointment.


	15. The Road to Lesalia, Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter is longer than I originally thought so I'm going to split it in two. Once again, I'd like to thank my co-writer and editor, Falchion1984 for his help in making this story possible. To all our readers, reviews are greatly appreciated since we both worked so hard on this fic. Thanks a bunch!

Yet another truism of Ivalice was that, when pushed too far, the Ivalician people take action...and that such action was rarely peaceful. After more than half a century of calamitous warfare, political upheaval, and repeated bouts of flooding, drought, plague, and economic ruin, the myriad peoples of the seven provinces were long on anger and short on patience.

And, as often happened during those long years of fear, when the shadows of war and starvation loomed ever higher and darker, fear had a tendency to turn into anger. And, often sooner rather than later, anger gave way towards violence.

And so it was that, after a month and a half of strange occurrences centered around the deserted Lionel Castle, still largely attributed to the restless dead, the people who lived in the ancient fortress's ominous shadow had finally had enough.

It was not just the strange noises of labor wafting out of the empty castle by day, nor the wailing of a babe in arms by night, but the past week had seen a number of disappearances, even though citizens of all descriptions yet gave the castle a wide berth. At first, it was only the odd street urchin who, beforehand, had been either panhandling on this street corner or trying to slip into that shop to pilfer whatever food or coin they might find. The disappearance of one or two disreputable waifs was met with the occasional words of sympathy towards the misfortunate of the world from some, and a considerable amount of relief from most, but very little action on the part of either group. When one or two disappearances became one and then two dozen, however, the people became furtive. Then, when a former teacher, who'd taught at a school which had been lost to Ivalice's former poverty, also disappeared, hands began to wring and brows to stream.

Another week passed and, after still others went missing, the call to arms was sounded.

Nearly a hundred townsfolk had rallied, armed with whatever weapons they could scrape together. Though all were nervous, and all too aware that only a bare portion of their meager arsenal had been blessed with the ability to damage foes from beyond the grave, all remained resolute in their determination to cleanse Lionel Castle of the foul undead which lurked within.

And, afterward, they would burn the castle to the ground and be rid of its ignominious legacy once and for all.

After some heated debate, the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker were selected to act as scouts for the assault. Since these specters seemed active by day, an abnormality about which all remained curious, the trio would approach the castle in the early morning, assess the numbers and strength of the undead within, and report back so that their fellows could plan their attack accordingly. As the trio approached the castle, they saw still more signs that something/ dwelt within, for the once overgrown garden had been at least partially tamed, looking only half as weed ridden as before. What's more, the cobblestone paths, which had been nearly lost beneath a carpet of autumn leaves, had been swept clean. Moving closer, they saw that, as reported by those who'd ventured this close in the past, the windows were inexplicably clean and that the visible areas of the interior had been dusted as well. But, when they finally discerned sounds of activity coming from the kitchen and dining room, and found windows they could peer through, they saw neither ghosts nor zombies.

The castle was, indeed, inhabited, but the new tenants looked every bit as alive as the trio of onlookers.

All about the kitchen, a group of over a dozen children, their ages ranging from five summers to twelve, were bustling about, preparing what looked like a small feast. The smell of savory lamb, quiche, venison, a plethora of roasted vegetables, and basketfuls of freshly baked bread reached the nostrils of the strange kitchen staff's small audience. A girl with golden hair and sky blue eyes, who looked barely ten summers, was directing the bustle, seeming to punctuate each command by pulling out a small roll from a satchel at her waist and tearing into the treat with enough gusto to have all onlookers, children and otherwise, cringing. Perplexed, the trio moved to the next window. As they peered into the dining room, they saw another group of children, some arranging plates and silverware while others were weaving ribbons about the room's columns and threading strands of flowers across the otherwise cold, bare stone. Overseeing the dining room was a russet haired boy with eyes of a distinct shade of green. He looked just on the threshold of adolescence and, despite shepherding his unlikely staff like a head waiter's best apprentice, he paused in his work from time to time to cast an appreciative eye towards the girls under his supervision. Bewildered, the three men ducked out of sight and hurriedly conferred.

"I recognize some of those children," the candlestick maker whispered, honestly uncertain why he still feared detection or what such would entail. "At least two of them were panhandling outside my shop last month, and another broke in to try and steal the day's takings. I ran them off, and hadn't seen them since. But, why are they here?"

As it turned out, that was not the only mystery. The candlestick maker clearly remembered the waifs who'd troubled him being filthy and malnourished. But, all now looked freshly bathed and had apparently discovered the means to feed and clothe themselves. In fact, as the trio furtively rose and continued to watch, the blonde girl supervising the kitchen discreetly loosened the ties of her corset, as though this particular waif found her new clothes a trifle snug. Though, since all three men were quite certain that petty thefts in the city had declined sharply of late, they were at a loss as to just how this turn in fortunes had come about. And, when the baker spoke up, their confusion only deepened.

"I recognize some of those children too," he said. "They came into my store two days ago, looking to buy flour, fondant, and sugar. And, they paid for it all. Didn't short me one gil."

"Same here," the butcher added. "They bought that very rack of lamb from me the other day. I could've sworn the children were some of the waifs who'd been harassing my customers for gil, so I had no idea where the money came from. But, business had been slow since before the war started, so I was in no position to turn away visitors with coin."

The three men spent some time debating what to do next. Though it now seemed doubtful that the castle was haunted by the undead, they still had far more questions than answers. How had these children come to be here, and why? From whence came the money with which they'd purchased food and clothing when, not long ago, they'd begged for or stolen both? For whom was this meal being prepared? And, for that matter, how could they convey such a bizarre, and incomplete, account to their fellows without looking the part of cowards concocting any story they could to avoid being held to account for failing their duty to their families and neighbors?

Their discussion was forgotten when the sound of grass crunching underfoot reached their ears and, as they peered in the direction of the sound, they spied the blonde girl who'd been overseeing the kitchen. She looked to be inspecting a number of flowers blooming on the vines climbing the castle walls, no doubt looking to supplement the decorations inside. As before, she meditatively stuffed rolls into her mouth as she worked, studying the blossoms and gently pulling free those which met her approval.

Now that the three men could see her more clearly, it was all the more obvious that she was no specter, but a living and breathing child. Yet, that she was freshly bathed and dressed, however humble her garb, still left them confounded. They recalled a nigh-starved waif, who'd looked very much like this child, clad in rags and pilfering scraps but weeks before. And, as if seeking to add to their confusion, the girl bent backward to examine a group of florets on a vine higher up, pulling her outfit tight against what looked to be the beginnings of a potbelly.

After a moment spent exchanging questioning glances with his fellows, the candlestick maker elected to try the direct approach. Concealing his weapon in a patch of tall grass, just in case this confusing scene was not as benign as it looked, he approached the girl.

"Excuse me?" he asked, deliberately keeping his tone soft and non-threatening.

The girl, startled, whirled in his direction but seemed to calm when he held up both hands and put on what he hoped was a convincing smile.

"I'm sorry to have startled you," he said, somewhat surprised when he realized he meant it, "but I could not help but notice the bustle in there. What is happening?"

The girl seemed to mull over his words for a moment, as if uncertain how to answer, but she suddenly seemed to brighten.

"I guess you're not early guests, then?" she asked, her voice cheery even when the candlestick maker's expression likely betrayed his confusion. "Well, I _could_ ask the master if he has room at the table."

"Room at the table?" the candlestick maker repeated, trying to keep his tone casual. "What is going on? And, what would we have been guests for?"

"Why, the wedding!" the girl replied, her excitement betraying her youth.

"Whose wedding, little one?"

After the girl had answered, and the three men decided to take what they knew back to their fellows, the assault on Lionel Castle was aborted. But, even after the bewildered townsfolk had laid aside their weapons and returned to their homes, a flurry of questions was bandied about the city, the province, and, later, beyond.

Who was Duke Drake Seymour? And, for that matter, who was his bride-to-be?

* * *

"Duke Drake Seymour and Lady Agrias Oaks, on this day of great joy, the two of you have come together to forge a union born of mutual respect and love. Such is not a step taken lightly, but wisely, with foresight of the future, and, above all, with the firm belief that the bonds forged on this day will not be weathered by time nor shattered by unhappy chance, but will endure until death separates you," Father Jonathan Sanders, a priest from the Church of Glabados, intoned to the couple who stood before him in Lionel Castle's chapel.

Unlike the rest of the ruthlessly austere castle, the chapel had had some color afforded it by its two prior lords. Stained glass windows, thankfully depicting some of the less macabre scenes from the scriptures of Glabados, admitted light of many different hues, lending the bride a nigh-angelic image all her own. These were supplemented by a banner depicting a majestic eagle standing vigil over a nest of chicks, touted by Delita as a possible prototype for the 'Seymour' family crest. Conspicuously situated next to the banner of the eagle was that of the newly formed Order of the Chimera, which served as a thinly veiled reminder of just who had made Ramza and Agrias's pending marital bliss possible...

...and, that that same person could just as easily take it all away.

A deep red runner parted two rows of pews, sparsely filled but meticulously polished and gleaming in the rainbow of sunlight. Intricately wrought incense burners, containing a substance believed to enhance the ardor between newlyweds, flanked the doors and the altar, letting out heady fumes that had even the unattached amongst the audience pining for a glass of cold water.

Father Jonathan had been somewhat dubious about performing these rites and, truth be told, the feeling was mutual. But, though he likely had not looked favorably upon a couple whose child came before their nuptials, all knew he could not afford to turn down a personal request by King Delita to officiate the wedding between the new Duke of Lionel and his fiancée. With so much of the church's best and brightest dead, if not by Ramza's hand than by Vormav's, the church was in dire need of resources to replenish its ranks, and the bribe King Delita had offered to perform the marriage rites, and to keep silent about it afterwards, was too badly needed to refuse.

Still, despite how thoroughly leveraged the visiting priest was, those seated in the pews were hardly reassured. Granted, with High confessor Marcel dead and the Knights Templar all but annihilated, the church could do little against the small band. What's more, much to their amazement, Delita had proven as good as his word and, aside from the surviving Beoulves themselves, the pardons for all the one time fugitives had come through. And yet, despite this hopeful sign, the enmity the small group felt towards their vested visitor refused to be mollified.

Even if Marcel and his fellow conspirators had been only a few bad apples in an otherwise healthy barrelful, Ramza and his companions were not keen on finding out whether the church had more Father Simons than Confessor Zalmos. And, though at least a few of them still believed in what St. Ajora allegedly stood for - such as love and charity to ones fellow man, and that those who'd gone astray and done wrong must be shown forgiveness when they show contrition for their misdeeds - the church would not find even Ramza's freely given forgiveness until Ivalice's spiritual helm was in better hands.

Not that Ramza was thinking about his unlikely houseguest overmuch. After Agrias had swept into the room, Beowulf giving the bride away in her late father's stead, the groom's attention had been thoroughly fixed upon subduing his mutinous lower jaw.

Those gathered as witnesses had to admit, though, the catharsis of laughter had been sweet as they'd watched Ramza's jaw hang open until, reaching his side, Agrias had closed it for him.

"With that having been said," Father Jonathan went on, shaking all back to attention, "and with none amongst these witnesses having given good cause why you two should not marry, have you come here freely and without reservation to give yourselves to each other in marriage?"

"We do," the couple in question answered as they stood before the altar, their voices echoing clearly in the emptiness of the chamber. The chapel was half full, at best, as many of the couple's other friends could not be there to attend the sudden nuptials. They had, however, sent them letters of well-wishes and were looking forward to meeting and congratulating them when they arrived at Lesalia. Normally, a noble's wedding was a grand event attended by hundreds. But, due to the need to maintain the secrecy of the Beoulve siblings' identities until they were properly introduced to the public as the Seymours by the new king, Ramza insisted that his and Agrias' wedding be kept a quiet and simple affair.

Even after seeing that the thirty or so orphans they'd allowed under their roof in exchange for help tending the castle would not betray them, the former Beoulve was nonplussed at the notion of his wedding being attended by so many strangers. Still, since he knew their reception would be a meager affair without them, he'd given the unlikely staff the choice of whether they wanted to attend. Nearly all elected to take their day's wages and, as was their custom, spend it on sweets, clothes, shoes, and toys, all of which had been the stuff of dreams during their harsh years in the defunct workhouses. Ramza hadn't argued the point, though he had been somewhat pleased when the first two young orphans they had taken in, Manon and Charlotte, had chosen not only to attend but to help with the ceremony.

In defiance of Ramza's fears about letting two strangers under the same roof as his soon-to-be wife, his child, and his pregnant sister, the two orphans had proven worth their weight in gil. Not only were they diligent in their duties and had managed to recruit other orphans who turned out to be trustworthy in tending the castle, but both were unshakably loyal to Alma. They'd listened to Reis' ongoing tutelage about what Alma must do to ensure the health of her baby and acted whenever Alma deviated from these instructions by so much as a hairsbreadth. They'd aided her in the kitchen, Charlotte's incessant peckishness notwithstanding, and had lent an ear and kind words whenever Alma was saddened by the prospect of her baby being raised by a man other than Izlude.

Not only that, but they'd also given Alma a picture of what motherhood would be like. Though the two children had survived the den of inequity that their former workhouse had become, it hadn't been easy for the pair to trust to their unlikely benefactors. Yet, Alma had shown them patience, understanding, and, ultimately, love. Sometimes it had been helping them through their lingering, but ever fewer, nightmares. Other times it had been keeping vigil by their sickbeds, such as when Rad's prediction about the aftereffects of Charlotte's ravenousness proved true. Once or twice, it had been admitting how scared she was of being a mother without the man she'd loved at her side and knowing the children cared enough to try and make her feel better, just as she did for them.

Both children had mentioned they believed Alma would be a good mother, and Ramza agreed.

Amongst Ramza's very, _very_ long list of questionable ideas since that fateful day at Fort Zeakden, the decision to take in the orphans had likely been one of his best.

Ramza was jolted back to the present when the priest continued. "Since it is your intention to enter into marriage, join your right hands, and declare your consent to enter into this union before God and his Church."

The bride and groom obeyed. After taking Agrias' hands in his, Ramza took a deep breath and spoke the words he had rehearsed so many times in preparation for this very moment. He knew it would have been much easier to repeat the words of consent after the priest, as was the custom for most weddings. Some marrying couples were known to do so when their union was arranged by their respective families, and where bride and groom beheld little more than a stranger upon reaching the altar. Even those who'd married for love opted for being guided through the vows as often as not, for fear that the words would be lost to their anxiety or that the gravity of the moment would strangle their voices into little more than croaking. But, Ramza had felt that learning the words that would join him and Agrias forever and letting his heart lend weight to those words, would make their wedding vows sound as heartfelt and sincere as his bride-to-be, and their child, deserved.

This didn't stop him, however, from breaking out in a sweat, nor did it still his quavering heart as he turned to face Agrias and found his throat going dry at the sight of her radiant eyes and rosy cheeks. Fortunately, though his bride was no less enthralled than he, she'd managed to keep her reserve.

"I, Drake Seymour, take you, Agrias Oaks, to be my wife. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life."

"And I, Agrias Oaks, take you, Drake Seymour, to be my husband. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life."

Father Jonathan could not help but be impressed with the coolness and ease with which the bride spoke her vows, even as her groom seemed to hover between ecstasy and panic. He gave them both a silent nod of approval, even as he smothered a chuckle at the groom's nerves, before continuing.

"You have declared your consent before the Church. May the Lord in His goodness halve your sorrows and multiply your joys, as are His blessings to all happy and enduring pairs united in the bonds of wedlock. What God has joined, let no man tear asunder."

Ramza had to admit that, as he took in the sight of his newly wedded wife, he found himself wondering just how many men would be tempted to try. Probably more than a few, he'd imagine. After some debate, Agrias had consented to shed her armor in favor of a wedding gown. After Olan Durai had, at long last, sent word that the church had 'discovered' just how porous the evidence against Ramza's companions was, and expunged the mark of heresy against them, the Murry twins had lost no time dragging their captain into town to find a suitable gown. And, they'd chanced upon a shop which had an elegant white gown with, as the Murry twins had put it (in unison, no less) 'just the right mix of stylish and saucy'. Ramza still wasn't sure what that even meant, but he found himself getting flushed as he took in the triangular plunging neckline and the embroidered lace patterns that wound their way up and down the sleeves to where her shoulders were left exposed. Further down was a layered skirt which had bobbed and tilted as she made her way down the aisle, offering more than a hint of the shapely legs beneath. Her reddish-blond hair had been tied in a bun, secured by a hairpin adorned with a flower of deep purple, though she'd left two tendrils draped over either shoulder as was her custom.

Simply put, Agrias looked absolutely stunning, so much so that Manon forgot his assigned role as the ring bearer until Charlotte, who'd been the flower girl, gave him a not-so-gentle nudge that finally propelled him into action. Wearing an embarrassed smile that belied just how few years his once harsh life truly numbered, he charged forward, holding up the small satin pillow which, despite the mad sprint, had somehow retained the two gold and diamond rings meant for the bride and groom.

Ramza smiled and gave the blushing boy a nod of gratitude before taking one of the rings from the pillow. As soon as the young Beoulve had his bride's ring in hand, the priest raised his hand and said "May the Lord bless these rings which you give to each other as the sign of your love and fidelity."

As soon as he got Father Jonathan's signal to continue, Ramza took Agrias' left hand and reverently guided the ring onto and up her finger.

"With this ring, I thee wed. Wear it as a symbol of my abiding love for you."

"I accept and cherish this ring. I will wear it as a symbol of my devotion to you."

After the ring was placed on her finger, Agrias took the other ring from Manon's pillow and slipped it on her groom's finger as she repeated his words.

"With this ring, I thee wed. Wear it as a symbol of my abiding love for you."

"I accept and cherish this ring. I will wear it as a symbol of my devotion to you."

"Then, by the power vested in me by the Church of Glabados, I now pronounce you husband and wife," Father Jonathan intoned. "You may now kiss the bride."

Ramza obeyed as his shaking hands slowly lifted the veil from his lovely bride's face. Even though his wedding was nowhere near as extravagant as a noble's wedding was expected to be, he still considered himself the luckiest man on earth. Even though there had been no shortage of people who'd believed that the wrinkle of fate that had seen him born to the Beoulve line had supposedly dictated his entire life, just as surely as one born lowly supposedly stayed lowly until death, he nonetheless had the comfort of knowing that at least his wife was of his own choosing.

And, as his mind wandered to another whose life had been lived in defiance of fate's expectations, and despite his lingering reservations about his old friend, he found himself hoping that Delita and Ovelia had been as happy when they'd exchanged their vows.

Normally most bridegrooms would need to bend over to kiss their brides, but since Agrias was every bit as tall as he was, Ramza didn't have to move very far. Even so, the sheer bliss of what was happening left him so overwhelmed that that minute distance proved seemingly as vast as the Rhana Straight. Growing impatient, his bride decided to take matters into her own hands as she leaned forward and kissed him first, which prompted quite a bit of laughter from their friends sitting in the chapel pews, as well as their unlikely ring bearer and flower girl.

Normally, Alma would have joined in, for she knew better than most that her brother could be such a ninny at times, despite having led a rag-tag group of friends to victory against the Lucavi, as well as saving her life in the process. While Alma was truly happy for her brother and his new wife, for both of them were very dear to her, she also could not help feeling a tinge of envy creeping in on her joy as she recalled that soon, perhaps very soon, it would be her standing in front of the altar, but not alongside the man she truly wanted to marry. She knew that dwelling on such thoughts could only cause her further pain, especially when she had her baby to think of, but Alma couldn't help thinking what might have been if Izlude had lived. She liked to think he would've been thrilled to be a father, even if their child had been conceived out of wedlock, perhaps that he'd even have approved of her decision to take in Manon and Charlotte, as well as shared her faith that they'd only bring in former ward mates who could be trusted around little Rachel and their baby. Perhaps he might've gotten a good laugh out of how Alma had little success in curbing Charlotte's tendency to eat more than her long malnourished stomach could handle, or maybe he'd have set Manon straight regarding his wandering hands. Beyond that, however, she wondered if it would have been them exchanging vows as her brother and his bride had just done, perhaps with Meliadoul, who Alma had barely even met but knew to have been her would-be sister-in-law, acting as her Maid of Honor.

Had someone predicted she'd be pondering these questions regarding the man who'd dragged her from Orbonne, kicking and screaming, she might've considered the words to have been the product of some madness. But, looking back on her first encounter with the knight blade, what it led to, and what might have been, Alma realized that she wouldn't have traded it for anything in the world. She just wished it hadn't ended the way it did.

She tried to focus her thoughts elsewhere but quickly found that a wedding was hardly the place to try and put aside thoughts of one's lost love. Ramza, despite looking as flustered as a schoolboy who'd been noticed by the belle of the campus, could not hide the adoration he felt for Agrias and, though she was far more controlled than her giddy groom, it was obvious Agrias felt the same. Rad still kept up his rude games with Alicia and Lavian, fondling both in a manner which drew glares from anyone who happened to notice, but Alma suspected that there was a hidden meaning behind how his gaze lingered on Alicia just a bit longer than it did on Lavian. Even Manon and Charlotte, who Alma had immediately guessed meant a great deal to each other, were exchanging shy, furtive glances.

Sensing the stinging in her eyes, Alma wiped at them furiously and, for lack of anything else to focus on, considered the wording of her next inevitable lecture to Charlotte following the reception. Considering the wedding feast that their unlikely kitchen staff had managed to turn out, not to mention the three layered cake, if Charlotte didn't pop by the night's end, it wouldn't be for lack of trying on her part.

Reis, who had been sitting next to Alma, seemed to sense the Beoulve girl's train of thought. Even though she'd said nothing, the sadness and longing in her eyes was clear as day to the perceptive dragonkin. It was obvious that Alma was deep in the throes of regret, knowing that she would never get the chance to exchange vows with the man she truly loved. Seeing Agrias exchanging rings with Ramza, and knowing that Reis herself had just gotten married the week before to her long-time love, Beowulf, had surely stirred up a few ghosts. Knowing that Alma needed whatever comfort and encouragement she could get, especially since she carried her lost love's child, the dragonkin gently took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, as if telling her that everything was going to be all right and that her friends would always be there for her no matter what.

Knowing that Reis meant well, the Beoulve girl smiled and patted her hand as if to silently convey her gratitude for all Reis' support.

An unlikely catharsis came during the reception when, apparently having left his anxiety at the altar, an uncontrollably grinning Ramza began lavishing Agrias' neck with kisses. Despite realizing how childish of her it was - and how ironic, considering she and Izlude had done much the same during those halcyon days in Riovanes - Alma could not help the comically exaggerated expressions of disgust which crossed her features.

Her disgust became a bit more real, however, when Agrias gently pushed Ramza back and told him they ought to get used to the baby they had before they started making any more.

A bell-clear laugh told Alma that her discomfiture had been noticed by Reis, who was seated across the dining room table from the Beoulve girl. Rising from her seat, the dragonkin rounded the table to lay a hand, cold as dragon scales and yet as gentle as spring rain, upon Alma's shoulder.

"Agrias always did know how to get the last laugh," Reis opined, somewhat needlessly.

"I can see that," Alma replied, still trying to expunge the unbidden image of her brother 'making' her another niece or nephew. "I'll admit, I was stunned when I learned about Agrias. When I met her during the war, on the way to Orbonne, I suspected that Ramza was taken with her, but I never would've guessed they'd fall in love. Then again, I doubt she did either. Still, I am glad they found each other. And, I know they'll be a happy family. They're already such good parents to Rachel."

"Sounds like you've gotten in some practice yourself," Reis pointed out, gesturing towards Manon and Charlotte.

"'Practice' was a charitable way of putting it, in Alma's opinion. Though the two children had needed little time to win a place in her heart, the Beoulve girl was all too aware that she had just as much to learn about rearing Manon and Charlotte as she did with her own baby. Alma would never regret her decision to take in the two desperate waifs, for they'd helped her not only to gain a grasp of motherhood but also to appreciate it. Though the baby which Izlude should have raised alongside her would grow up calling a different man 'father', Manon and Charlotte crossing her doorstep had helped to center her. Yes, the father of her baby was gone, but the baby still needed her.

And, so did Manon and Charlotte.

Whether they stayed on at the castle or whether they eventually left to forge their own paths, they had been deeply scarred by the depravity that went on in their defunct workhouse and they needed to be healed. Not just of their cuts and bruises and malnourishment, all of which had already been tended to, but also shown that, for all its harshness, the world still had its bright spots, its motes of compassion and decency that shone brightly amidst the drab of apathy and the gloom of malice.

Ramza had believed that that world, for all its corruption, was worth fighting for. And, perhaps it fell to Alma to prove that that world was worth living in.

Of course, as she quickly discovered, that was vastly more complicated than it sounded.

Though Manon still had his better angels, he also had more than a few of Rad's bad habits prior to his arrival, and Rad had promptly begun making them worse. From time to time, she'd spy the boy ghosting his fingers against Alicia and Lavian's backsides. And, it didn't help matters that the Murry twins, who seemed to relish such rude games, encouraged him by allowing his wandering hands access to their hips and waists.

Alma had a supposition that Charlotte regarded Manon as more than just a fellow outcast, judging from the flash of displeasure that would cross her face when Manon was thus engrossed. And, realizing this, Alma found herself in conflict over whether it was her place or Charlotte's to let Manon know what harm he unwittingly caused.

And, Charlotte had other problems as well.

A recurring consequence of her long malnourishment was that she always seemed to be hungry and, now that she lived in a castle where there was food aplenty, all those enticements had little trouble working their magic on her. This point was driven home when Alma spied Charlotte cutting a slice of cake - her third, by Alma's count - and tearing into it as though days, rather than heartbeats, had passed since she'd last eaten.

And, before she'd even swallowed, Charlotte had cut free a slice of lamb nearly as big as her small fist and shoveled that in as well. Once she'd managed to get it all down, any and all onlookers surely being impressed (and slightly nauseated) that she hadn't choked, she snatched up a basket of bread, applied copious amounts of butter to each slice, and devoured each and all with a rapidity that had Alma shaking her head in equal parts disbelief and disgust.

Perhaps it was knowing how painful it was to go hungry, especially for a child, that had made Charlotte such an avid student in the kitchen, for she'd learned both to cook and to direct Lionel Castle's unlikely kitchen staff with remarkable ease. But, that didn't stop Alma's lips from twisting with displeasure as she recalled how, on top of all that Charlotte was presently shoveling down her mouth, an entire basket of rolls had 'disappeared' while the feast was being prepared. Suffice to say, the identity of the culprit was never in doubt.

"She'll make herself sick doing that...again," Alma opined, already bracing herself for another night spent at Charlotte's bedside.

"She might, but what to do about it?" Reis asked, seemingly no one in particular. "She might learn better on her own, or maybe you'll need to talk to her. These are questions that any parent has to ask themselves. Oh, there's never any shortage of people who want to give advice, but whose advice to listen to? And, what do you do if no one's suggestions please you? Well, that's a question only you can answer."

Just as Alma was reminded, pointedly, that the final responsibility belonged to her, and just how weighty it was, Reis calmed her with a maternal kiss to her brow.

"But, I have faith in you," the dragonkin affirmed. "I've seen how they look up to you, how they've come to respect and care for you, all in a matter of days. Even if you don't know what to do, talking to them might really be all you really need. Charlotte seems hurt by Manon's...attentions to other girls? Maybe you should encourage her to tell him, or tell him yourself? That's a decision only you can make, but I believe you'll make the right choice. As for Charlotte..."

Reis paused and pointed at the young girl who, though looking slightly green, appeared thoroughly determined to gnaw every last scrap of tender meat from the ravaged lamb chops which, by this point, had piled up on her plate under they were nearly level with her chin.

"Perhaps it'll have more of an impact if you tell her not to eat so much while she's trying to sleep all that off," Reis suggested. "Or, maybe that would be rubbing it in, and doing so the next morning would be better? Either way, you took in those children when no one else would give them a second glance. You gave them a roof over their heads and food on their plates when no one else would. I've seen children like them, who were so desperate and so without hope that they feel all the world is as cold and pitiless as those who turned a blind eye to their suffering. But, they know you're different. You've proven it every hour you've known them, and I believe they'll listen when you try to tell them what they need to know."

The Beoulve girl had to admit, the dragonkin's words had been badly needed. It was true that, more often than not, Alma had been groping desperately for some clue about how to do right by the children, not only by Manon and Charlotte but the others whom they'd brought in. As the number of children had grown from two and, now, inched its way towards thirty, the Beoulve girl saw that the burden of maintaining their newfound home was much lighter. This, in turn, gave those who'd risked life and limb for her sake during the war a chance to rest and, in the case of Ramza and Agrias, more time for each other and little Rachel. No one truly knew how long the children would be staying or, indeed, under what terms. But, after seeing so much suffering during the war, Ramza had ultimately agreed when Alma wanted to do at least something to help mend at least a few of Ivalice's lingering wounds. Apart from their new newfound jobs, shelter, and salaries, the children also had a teacher who'd been recruited from the city and now taught them how to read, write, and work numbers. So, if any of them ultimately chose to leave, they'd be better able to make their way in the world beyond the foreboding fortress.

The Beoulve girl found herself wondering if it was some burgeoning maternal instinct that made her eyes sting at the prospect of any of the children leaving, but she consoled herself with knowing that, if she did right by them, they'd be fine. She just had to do her best.

And, perhaps, that would be enough.

"What I'd give for even a drop of your confidence," Alma replied, still daunted but not nearly as much so as before. "Still, I'll do what I can. For them, and my baby."

"You'd be surprised how many 'parents' there are who won't even do that much," the dragonkin said soberly. "But, for now, we'd best be going. The bouquet toss is coming up."

In a supreme irony, the bundle of flowers - and, with it, the presumption of who'd be next to marry - landed right in Alma's arms. All too aware of just how prophetic that might prove, and all the implications therein, her evening was a long and solemn one.

* * *

"So I guess this is good-bye then, Sir Damien?" Gerde asked as she helped Izlude load the last of his things into Nelly's saddlebags.

Izlude did not respond right away, his swirling thoughts drowning out her words as he tallied up his newfound wealth and how it might aid him in his quest to reunite with Alma.

The rest of his possessions, which included one-eighth of the Moonsharks' vast collection of loot, had briefly presented Izlude with a conundrum. While he knew that even a fraction of the undead bandits' hoarded plunder would be enough to buy a small barony, he'd been at a loss as to how he could possibly take it all with him. With only a single mount, he could only carry a tiny fraction per trip, and he was quite certain he didn't have that kind of time, whereas taking it all at once would mean hiring an entire caravan of wagons. Even then, it would be slow going as the wagons would be heavily laden no matter how many they numbered, and at least some of the treasure was likely to be lost due to the jostling of the wagons, mishaps on the road, or even theft by the porters. Luckily, ever the businessman, Aldrich had posed a solution which would allow for mutual benefit. To Izlude's perplexity, he pulled out what appeared to be a collection of handbills. He passed a handful to the knight blade, and he saw that they were stamped with such numerals as ones, fives, tens, twenties, fifties, hundreds, and even thousands. Each also featured a small portrait. Some were of King Delita, others Queen Ovelia, and still more displayed the faces of such past monarchs as King Denamda IV, King Omdoria III, and others. Interestingly, Queen Ruvelia was conspicuously absent.

Interesting, but not surprising.

Aldrich must've noticed Izlude's confusion and, like any salesman, needed no encouragement to offer explanation. Apparently, these paper bills were known as 'traveler's money'. It had been created recently by the newly appointed Chancellor Olan Durai as an alternative medium of trade, and these had been gaining popularity among travelers and merchants due to its convenience. Gil and goods which had once been a great deal of hassle to transport from province to province due to their sheer weight could now be converted to these paper bills, which now were accepted at any town or city in Ivalice. Although the new paper currency was not designed to replace gold outright - as the value of the gold dictated the value of paper currency in a fashion which, despite Aldrich's best efforts, went clear over Izlude's head - it did offer an alternative to carrying around heavy, bulging pouches of gold which could be stolen or tear open and spill their precious contents for all to snatch up. In this fashion, Izlude could convert his loot into its equivalent value in traveler's money and, thus, be able to take his newfound riches with him in one trip.

Izlude could see the value of such a system, as it would have been impossible for him to transport all of his goods to Lesalia with only one mount. Aldrich did advise him to keep at least some of his assets in gold as a hedge against something called 'inflation' and, not wanting to display the depths of his ignorance, Izlude nodded his agreement and packed what golden articles he could onto Nelly.

"Would you two like to be alone?" Gerde cut in teasingly as she pointedly sat on the baguette sized gold ingot Izlude had been loading into his saddlebag.

"Oh!" he blurted, an embarrassed smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Sorry about that, Gerde. It's just...a bit overwhelming. When I got here, I barely had enough gil to fill one pocket and now...I'm at a loss for words!"

And, so he was as he found his hand wandering to his pocket where the holy stone was hidden. So far, very little, if anything that had happened to him had stemmed from sheer luck. Whether it was his resurrection, his surviving the flood at Fort Besselat, his encounter with Nicholas Rof, who had warned him of the haunting of the Gollund mines, or his victory over the Moonshark phantoms, Izlude could only shake his head in awe at recollections which barely seemed real to him. But, it was more than just how the stone had guided him, all but unscathed, through one harrowing escapade after another. By guiding him to Gollund, and later to Nicholas Rof, it had also given Izlude a chance to, at least in part, atone for his actions during the War of the Lions.

For the longest time since Hashmalum had revealed his true self, guilt had been weighing upon Izlude over what he had done at the disguised demon's bidding. The uprising against the crown and the nobility, which was at the center of the High Confessor's agenda for the church to supplant the monarchy, called for Ivalice's myriad crises to deepen until, seeing that the highborn had no solution to offer, the people turned to the church instead. Thus, an insidious campaign had been waged to undermine the crown's ability to protect its people, though those who felt the blow most keenly were humble folk like those who worked in those mines. The Church's machinations, which Izlude had played a key role in, had caused many entrepreneurs like Aldrich to fail and their workers to end up on the street with no coin to feed their families.

Izlude had done much to cause such hardship, unaware that such 'necessary sacrifices' were being dictated by demons who sought to see all humanity grovel in bondage. It felt good to have prevented such hardship for once. And, more than that, the sword he had taken becoming bathed in divine radiance had also been a powerful omen to his troubled heart. If he'd truly been as tainted by evil as he'd sometimes suspected, the sword would've incinerated him.

It didn't.

In fact, he'd been able to use it. Whether this meant his penance had been paid, or that he'd never been tainted at all, or whether whatever power ruled the heavens was simply willing to give him a chance to do some good with his second life, Izlude could not be certain. What he was certain of was that he would use these riches to finance his bid to win Alma's heart and to give her the happy life he'd sworn to before Hashmalum's claws had cut short his first life.

"I can imagine," Gerde said, laying a hand on Izlude's shoulder and giving him a comradely squeeze. "I've worked for Aldrich before, and I can't even remember the last time I saw him in such high spirits. I think he was ready to make you a full partner in the Consortium, but I'm guessing you have other plans?"

"Yes… I must head for Lesalia with all haste," Izlude replied, a sigh parting his lips as he thought about who, he hoped, would be waiting for him there. "There is someone there I must meet."

"Someone special?"

"Very special." Though he knew he had to keep his true identity, and Alma's, a secret, he saw little harm in telling Gerde that much. And, after having spent so much time concocting an intricate web of half-truths and cover stories for his persona as 'Damien Mitchell', telling even some of the truth felt almost cathartic. "You probably don't know this but, during the war, I've done some things I'm...not proud of. She set me straight, made me want to be a better man. And, even before I listened, she had faith in me. But, I knew I'd need to make something of myself before I could be with her."

"She must be a helluva woman if you were willing to carve your way through a horde of ghosts for a second date."

"Well, we actually got passed 'dating'," Izlude admitted, letting out a nervous chuckle.

"Oh, you stud!" Gerde exclaimed, laughing heartily as she swatted Izlude on the back, but her tone soon turned to one of understanding. "It does put a few things in perspective, though. I don't truly regret my decision to join the Nanten, but there are a lot of things from back then that I wish I could forget. For what it's worth, though, I think you have a lot less to feel guilty about. You saved the Consortium, and the jobs of hundreds of good people. Not to mention making sure the revenue we get from mining can be used to help rebuild Ivalice, which could make a big difference in thousands and thousands of lives. Someone who cares enough about their fellow man to do that, and risk their lives doing it? Well, whoever it is you want a second roll in the hay with is a lucky woman."

 _Well, we'd already had the 'second' some time ago, but no need to tell her_ that _much_ , Izlude mused, though he still felt touched by the former Nanten's words.

After securing his saddlebags, he rose and offered his hand, which Gerde accepted and clasped with a grip that could make more than a few men wince.

"I'm not sure if we'll see each other again, but I hope we will," he told her, somehow not surprised at how much he meant it. "I will miss you, your father, and the rest of your crew. I haven't had many friends since back then, and there were times I doubted that would change. But, I'm glad I was wrong."

Again, he wasn't surprised by the depth of feeling behind the pronouncement. When he'd first begun his new life under the guise of Damien Mitchell, he'd been leery of anything that might alert the church to him still being alive, fumbling his way through even casual conversation about his origins and worried that approaching Ramza and company openly would see him slain over what he'd gotten Alma into...

...and not just by virtue of her abduction.

He'd found himself wondering if he'd have to live as a phantom, cut off from what few Templars had survived the war and with the same web of lies that kept him alive unable to withstand the scrutiny of even simple companionship.

Yet, as he'd met people like the Fredericks, Sir Alain, the Boulder Devils, Claudio, and Aldrich, he found himself thinking that, even if he'd have to create a new life out of his new persona, perhaps he did not have to live that life alone. And, though he'd never forget the loyal Sir Justin and the others he'd once known, it felt good that his solitude had been brief.

He would be at Alma's side, this he swore by his very soul, but he'd also discovered that, as his new life took shape, he could also discover new friends who could populate that life.

He'd made quite a few friends already, and he hoped he could make more. A lot more.

"I hope we do see each other again," Gerde agreed, a hint of mischief entering her tone. "I'm sure she'll get a kick out of how much of a lightweight you are at the drinking table."

The knight blade flushed, remembering, if somewhat vaguely, how Georg had been in rare form when he'd organized the impromptu celebration after Izlude had vanquished the phantasmal Moonsharks. Izlude didn't think he'd done that bad.

It had taken nine mugs of ale before he'd emptied his stomach and passed out, which was an improvement over the usual five.

"Oh, the tales to be told!" Gerde intoned ominously. "If nothing else, you _did_ impress us with your falsetto when you decided to join in the tavern ballad."

I...I WHAT?! Izlude silently blurted, horrified.

"Well, considering that you have so much to carry, even after converting most of your share of the Moonsharks' loot to paper money, you're fortunate that a caravan traveling to Lesalia has come to town," she went on, pointedly not bothering to enlighten Izlude as to the indignities he'd drunk himself into. "I'm sure it would be good for you to have some company on the way to the capital rather than traveling alone."

 _I know I'm not supposed to expect you to save me from everything_ , he silently told the holy stone, _but, I'd be willing to take my chances with the next group of undead if you could make everybody forget whatever it was I did last night!_

As often happened when whatever mind or heart dictated the stone's actions seemed disinclined to comply, the stone answered with an admonishing pulse of energy. Still, he knew that a caravan passing by Gollund on the way to Lesalia at just the right time for him to hitch a ride could only be attributed to the power of the holy stone. Ever since it had breathed life back into his lungs, it had been manipulating situations and circumstances in his favor over the last few months. How and why it did this, and why it would do so for him of all people, he still did not know. But, he did know that, in the wrong hands, these stones could be more dangerous than any number of swords or spells. And, just as it was his responsibility to return to Alma's side and love her as he'd promised, he must also make sure that the stone was kept far from anyone who could draw forth its less benign powers.

"Yes, you're right." Izlude answered, somehow managing to force a hazy image of drunken duets from his recoiling mind.

After they had finished loading the last of Izlude's newfound riches onto Nelly, Gerde watched as Izlude handed his mount over to one of the caravan members to take to the back of the long line of wagons that numbered twelve in all. "So, what will you and your father do now, Gerde?" the knight blade asked.

Gerde smiled. "Mr. Aldrich says that now that the ghosts are gone, several miners have returned and the project can continue on schedule. There will still be risks, but at least they can work without fear of being pelted to death by rocks or their own tools flying into their faces. As for father...well, I think last night told you that he'll be on his feet again before long. He and I discussed what we'll be doing next with the rest of our group, and we've decided to stick around here a bit longer before moving on. So, it looks like we'll be going our separate ways then. I don't know if we'll meet again, Sir Damien. But, whether we do or not, I hope you get that girl of yours. Who knows? Maybe someday, we'll meet again and I can see just what sort of girl it takes to get you so besotted."

"I'd like that, Gerde," Izlude said as he gave his friend a hug. "In fact, she might too." While relieved that he wouldn't have to match drinks with Georg anymore, the knight blade had to admit that he was going to miss the jolly old man as well as his spunky daughter. As he himself had said, friends has been scarce for him of late. But, the ones he had made had done much to ease his heavy heart.

"Good luck to you, Sir Damien," Gerde said.

"You too, Gerde," Izlude replied. "Give my best wishes to your father and friends. Good-bye."

"Good-bye."

After letting go of his friend, Izlude turned and climbed aboard the nearest wagon. As soon as he was safely inside, the caravan master gave the signal and the wagons lurched into motion. Though the ever-shrinking distance between him and Alma soon had him twitching with anticipation, Izlude tried to calm himself as he considered what to do next. The unexpected discovery of the Moonsharks' loot, and securing a portion of it, had given him a war chest that a baron would envy, and he chaffed at the knowledge that the journey to Lesalia would take at least another week. Still, the knight blade supposed he should count himself fortunate. After all, he'd have that much more time to hone his persona as Damien Mitchell and to plan out how he'd catch the eye of Catherine Seymour, known to a very few as Alma Beoulve. He was also curious about Lesalia itself. Considering that he had not been back to the crown jewel of Ivalice in almost a decade, and that Lesalia had been a veritable lightning rod around which the storm of the War of the Lions had roiled, it was safe to assume that much had changed, especially with a new king and queen on the throne.

More than once, he allowed his mind to wander to what would happen after he had won Alma's hand. However he might reveal himself to be Izlude, a boon he hoped the stone would see fit to grant, he pondered what their lives would be like after their reunion. Would they live in Lionel Castle with, presumably, her brother? If so, Izlude found himself hoping that the vision he'd had of Ramza being joined by Malak and Meliadoul, both former enemies of his, meant that the young Beoulve was a most forgiving man.

Izlude had nearly met his end on Ramza's blade once already, and he wasn't keen on finding out just how often the holy stone could, or would, undo death.

However, another scenario also presented itself.

In addition to his portion of the Moonsharks' loot, Aldrich had also been keen to give Izlude an owner's share of the Ivalician Mining and Metalworking Consortium. Aldrich had also needed to explain that. This explanation had been much more scrutable...but also added a further layer of questions to the matter of Izlude's future. As a shareholder, he was, essentially, investing in the profitability of the Consortium and his role as a shareholder would mean that, when the Consortium was profitable, a portion of the returns would belong to him.

Given the prospects the company had, with the phantoms destroyed and Ivalice clamoring for their services, Izlude imagined that the return on his investment could be sizable.

However, this also came with certain responsibilities. He would be expected to contribute to the Consortium's financial well-being by retaining his shares, if not buying more, as well as fulfilling such functions as voting on major contracts and changes to company policy, as well as acting as a representative where possible to help the Consortium grow and prosper all the more. If, for instance, the Consortium sought shipping contracts in Lionel's port city of Warjilis, Izlude would be expected to vote either for or against the motion and, if it passed and he was living in Lionel, to aid in brokering the deal with the local shipping interests.

Although Izlude knew he'd need to learn how to be more than a knight in this new Ivalice, what was entailed by retaining the shares struck him as entering some exceptionally deep waters, even if it meant he'd have that much more money with which to support Alma and, hopefully, their children.

He supposed he could hire someone with a greater understanding of such matters to fulfill these duties on his behalf, as Aldrich told him was permissible, or even sell his shares. Either would give him more time to spend with Alma rather that traipsing about Ivalice. Though Izlude had come to respect and like Aldrich, he was nonplussed at being so wedded to the man's business when he sought a wedding of a very different sort and was leery at the idea of having to travel so often to aid in supporting the Consortium.

But, then again, what if Alma came with him?

Having had to adopt a false identity of her own, might she also have grappled with the same loneliness he'd felt not so long ago? Perhaps it would be better if she came with him on his travels and met some of the people who'd enriched his life, saw those she'd sought to help her brother save now prospered, and visited other parts of the realm which had been snatched away from the clawed grip of the Lucavi. Perhaps, that way, when their children were old enough to understand what the War of the Lions was and how much blood, toil, tears, and sweat had gone into mending Ivalice afterwards, it would be a source of pride to know that their parents had had a hand in making Ivalice a great nation once again.

And perhaps, if Alma was lonely as Catherine Seymour, as Izlude had been those first few weeks as Damien Mitchell, perhaps traveling about at Aldrich's beck and call would help both to fill their new lives with life.

Enticing a vision though it was, Izlude sensed he was getting much too far ahead of himself and tamed his musings in favor of preparing himself for his reunion with the Beoulve girl who'd been his captive and who'd yet ensnared him instead.

The first three days and nights passed with almost maddening slowness, and Izlude found his excitement giving way to impatience. Were he not carrying so much money, along with some perfume, jewelry, and other baubles from the Moonsharks' loot he had chosen to keep as gifts for Alma, Izlude could have ridden on Nelly and arrived in Lesalia by now. But, since the caravan had to stop by several towns on the way to the capital to sell and trade their goods, Izlude knew that it would be slow going. Not only would the goods need to change hands, but the chocobos who drew the wagons would need to be fed and allowed to rest, lest they suffer injury or be blown. Either of which would mean the animal would have to be healed carefully or put down, delaying the caravan badly whatever the case.

And, of course, that was leaving aside the merchants in the caravan who would need to periodically stop to eat, pitch camp or seek lodgings at an inn, and then get the whole mass of wheels and axels rolling again.

Still, when Izlude was able to master his frustration, he chanced upon something that would help both to relieve his boredom and to hone his persona as Damien Mitchell. One evening by the caravan's campfire, Izlude noticed that one of the other caravan members was reading a book which immediately caught the knight blade's interest.

**A History of** **Romanda**

Izlude quickly realized that that book might very well be worth several ingots like the one Gerde had sat on when she'd tired of him obliviously packing his loot while she'd been trying to bid him a proper farewell. Fortunately, simply pleading that he was of Romandan descent, and was curious about the ancestral homeland he'd never laid eyes on, had been enough to persuade the man to loan him the volume. And, more than a treatise on how to add some Romandan character to his persona, it was also one of the most fascinating books Izlude had read in a long time.

As a child, Izlude remembered how he had often complained to his mother about how cold winters in South Lesalia were. After reading this book, however, he realized that the winters from his childhood, even the harsh one that regularly blanketed Gollund, were nothing compared to those of the northern continent. Unlike Ivalice and Ordalia, Romanda was almost literally a land of snow and ice, with long, bleak winters lasting nearly eight months out of the year. Apart from some rather graphic tales of how potent a natural defense this proved in times of invasion, this was also credited with causing the distinct paleness of her people. What's more, unlike Ivalicians and Ordalians, nearly all Romandans had the same hair and eye color: black and grey.

As a child, Izlude was given only a cursory education in school regarding the history of the northern continent, but this book went into much more detail. In particular, he learned about how, during its inglorious Third Expansion, the Holy Ydoran Empire - which, at the time, encompassed Ivalice and Ordalia - turned its sights, and armies, northward. Though the Romandan army was small, in part because their infamous guns could only be manufactured in modest quantities, their deadly accuracy and the sheer shock and terror of their weapons' report made them deadly, even against far greater numbers. The Romandan hand gunners and pistoliers, sharpshooters trained in using their guns from atop chocobos bred for fighting in winter-locked climates, specialized in hit-and-run tactics, aided by heavy cloaks made from the fur of exotic white bears native to their lands, which made them nearly invisible amidst the snow-laden winds. 

And, on top of that, Romanda was also defended by her deadly weather. At times during the campaign, it would grow so cold that wagons and mounts alike floundered, men vanished into deep snow drifts never to be found, food turned hard as stones, equipment became brittle and shattered, and fingers, toes, and even entire limbs became so frostbitten they had to be hewn off. The author of the text cited the disastrous campaign as one of the reasons St. Ajora was able to garner such success when he appeared later in history though, after seeing what a 'holy' stone could do in the wrong hands, Izlude was nonplussed at the assertion. Conversely Romanda's brief involvement in the Fifty Years War was believed to have been because Ivalice's much warmer climate was so different from theirs that they could not adapt to it quickly enough for daily living, let alone fighting, and Ivalice's comparatively rare and sparse snow rendered many of their tactics useless.

Still, apart from a land with a fascinating history, he also found tidbits that would make his persona as a man of Romandan descent more convincing. He meditated on what his upbringing might have looked like, had he been raised as Damien Mitchell supposedly had. Quite possibly, his family would've included many aspects of his ancestral homeland in his childhood, such as anecdotes of their history and, likely, traditional Romandan cuisine would have crossed their table more than once. As it turned out, the local culture section of the book contained descriptions of such dishes. Some of them, such as mushroom strudel, kasha with oranges and raisins, and fermented shark, struck him as peculiar while such confections as bread pudding, cured salmon, and breaded pork cutlets had him pondering if there might be time to locate a Romandan cookbook during his time in Lesalia.

In any case, this book would prove invaluable since, if his 'Romandan heritage' turned out to be as obvious to others as it did to Sir Alain, it would raise some questions. And, it would behoove the knight blade to have some answers ready.

The knight blade had just finished reading the entire book, so startled it had ended, that he only belatedly noticed a middle-aged merchant had boarded the wagon and seated himself across from him. So preoccupied was he with his reading that he didn't even notice that the caravan had made yet another stop to pick up more passengers.

"I'm sorry, sir, did I startle you?" The merchant asked after noticing the look of surprise on Izlude's face.

"No, of course not, you've no need to apologize. I was just so caught up in my reading that I didn't even notice the wagon had stopped," Izlude blubbered, hardly needing to feign his embarrassment. "Sorry about that. My name is Damien Mitchell, what's yours?"

"Josef Fischer. Pleased to meet you!"

"Likewise," Izlude said politely, skimming the book as he discreetly made some notes for future use, in case the porter he'd borrowed the book from wanted it back and the knight blade was unable to find another copy.

"Must be quite an engrossing tome," the merchant quipped, almost sounding put out.

"My apologies," Izlude said sheepishly, closing the book and setting it aside. "I've been...wanting to remind myself of my roots for some time, and I guess I got a bit caught up in it."

Izlude decided that, if he was to pass himself off as a third generation immigrant from Romanda, it might seem more believable if he was relearning what his forbearers had already taught him than that he was learning it for the first time.

"Can't say I blame you," the merchant replied, obliquely accepting the apology. "Even if we don't like the answer, we all deserve to know where we came from. Helps make where we're going, and why, clearer. Just between us, though, is it true Romandans eat shark?"

"Never tried it myself, but yes," Izlude replied, deciding to test himself on his newfound knowledge. "It's called Hákarl, and it needs to be buried for weeks and then hung for months before you can actually eat it. I've heard that good things are worth waiting for, but that's pushing it."

The merchant chuckled at that, and as Izlude pondered what to say next, he noticed what appeared to be a golden locket dangling from one of the merchant's pouches. It was shaped like a heart and, at its center, was a beautifully cut red ruby. The locket looked familiar to him, so he decided to ask Josef about it. "Excuse me, Mr. Fischer, that gold locket you have there. Where did you come by it, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Oh, you mean this? Well, I got this a few months ago at Riovanes from a young lady. Very lovely, I might add. Slender build, bright blue eyes, luscious blonde hair. She said she needed a dagger, but was a bit short of money. So, she offered this locket in trade. I swear, it made my heart ache to see a girl peddling something too beautiful for a sliver of iron, but I did as she asked. I didn't like having to do it, but I needed to keep away the bill collectors, after all. Since the locket was worth far more than anything I had on me, I thought it only fair to trade her my finest dagger for it."

Upon hearing this revelation, Izlude was startled. A young blonde lady with bright blue eyes? A dagger? "I see. If you'll pardon my asking, who was she, Mr. Fischer?"

"Unfortunately, I didn't catch her name. But, I do remember her as being very lovely and kind, which is why I couldn't figure out for the life of me why she would want to trade such a valuable possession of hers for a weapon not worth even a fraction as much. Perhaps she'd attracted unwanted eyes and needed something with which to protect herself?"

 _Oh, you'd be surprised…_ , Izlude thought, valiantly keeping his expression neutral. But, instead of letting slip just whose eyes Alma had attracted, he simply asked "Would you be willing to sell it to me? I have my eye on a lady in Lesalia, and think it would make a lovely gift."

"Oh, is that so?" the merchant asked, smiling broadly. "Well, I suppose you're at that age. And, if there's a place for finding fine ladies, Lesalia be it."

"Indeed. How much do you want for it? Trust me, money isn't an issue for me now."

"Ahh…I see. Well, judging from the look of this locket, I'd say it's worth about three hundred gil. Is that fair?"

"Deal," Izlude said without a second thought. After he paid for the locket, Izlude made a show of continuing with his studies, waiting for the merchant to fall asleep. Once the man was snoring contentedly, Izlude quietly opened the locket and, within, he discovered the engravings which confirmed his suspicions.

_July 24, 981_

Alma's birthday.

_To my cherished little sister, Alma. Happy birthday! May you have many more filled with happiness and joy!_

_Love, your big brother, Zalbag._

So the locket was indeed Alma's. When he had first confronted the Beoulve girl during her brief captivity in Riovanes's dungeon, Izlude remembered seeing that piece around her neck. Later, he'd learned it was a favorite of hers and that she wore it every day. He hadn't noticed that it was missing from around her neck until the night he'd proposed to her, but he'd been so happy she'd accepted that he did not think to question her about it, until…

As he held Alma's locket in his hand, sifting the gold rope chain through his fingers, Izlude's thoughts went back to the first night he'd taken Alma into his bed. Even well after the fact, it still amazed him how, after years of skillfully resisting the advances of other women, from servant girls he grew up with in his parents' home to highborn girls who wouldn't have been out of place at a royal ball, the spunky cleric had quickly, and easily, tore through his resistance and he had willingly broken his vows of celibacy for her. Such an act - and with an accused heretic, no less - would have easily proven sufficient grounds for Izlude to be dismissed from the Knights Templar, were it ever discovered. Even his father, the commander of the Templar, would not have been able to spare Izlude such a dishonor.

Izlude had known this, practically since he was a boy, and yet he'd proven powerless against the tide of affection that swelled in him at the thought of his 'captive'.

All unmarried Templars, male and female, were required to take vows of celibacy before the high confessor himself, which were to be upheld until they wed. Those who lost their spouse, such as Vormav, renewed these vows until they married again, if they ever did. Any Templar who was discovered as having broken these vows was cast out of the order in disgrace and, given how often Izlude stole into Alma's chambers at night back in Riovanes, it would have only been a matter of time before his comrades discovered the true nature of his relationship with his 'captive'…

* * *

_The night was cold and silent and, though tendrils of icy air lapped at Izlude's chest, the lithe form of the woman curled up near him was more than enough to stave off the chill. Izlude could not help but smile drowsily at how things had changed between them since they'd met, and how different Alma seemed now from the hissing hellcat who'd nearly scratched his eyes out but days before. Now, she slept peacefully as he cradled her against his chest, though his drowsy grip belied how her grip on him was the stronger._

_Barely a month ago, the knight blade would never have even considered bedding a woman outside of marriage, let alone one he was keeping as a hostage, but Alma had set his mind awhirl since he'd first laid eyes on her. Granted, his first thought had been how the hell she could rake her nails against his face so without breaking them, but he'd later seen that she was far more than either a pampered nobleman's daughter or a hissing hellcat. Even bound and shackled, it had been obvious she was a beautiful woman and, later, he'd found her to be very different than the other highborn ladies he'd known. Whereas most of them thought very little about anything unrelated to their wardrobes or their jewelry or other such frivolities, Alma was intelligent, charming, tenacious, and thoughtful. Her seeming naiveté, which he'd once regarded as the sole explanation for why she'd continued to support her fugitive brother, concealed a strength of conviction and forthrightness which many of her knightly line would have approved of. And, though Izlude had little reason to believe her impassioned arguments for Ramza, her loyalty, and faith in her brother nonetheless commanded a respect in him that verged on being an act of heresy in and of itself._

_The knight blade was roused from his introspection when he felt his bedmate stir and slowly pry herself out of his arms. He opened his eyes slightly for a brief moment to see Alma with her back to him as she bent over the edge of their bed, as if reaching for something underneath. What she was up to, he had no idea. It was obvious that she was taking great care to move very quietly and to not rouse him, unaware that he was already awake, and that birthed more than one dire musing as to her intent. But,he decided to feign sleep a little longer as he felt her slowly making her way back to him. For a stretching second, he heard only the smothered sound of anxious, ragged breathing, followed by another sound he knew all too well- the whisper of a blade as it was drawn from its sheath._

_The knight blade immediately caught on to what his bedmate was up to, and part of him wasn't even surprised. After all, demure though she'd seemed as she'd shyly kissed him, he also knew that she was still a prisoner here and, like any prisoner, her first thought was always_ _escape. What's more, he knew that she was still loyal to her brother despite the vast evidence of his heresy. Wherever her brother's convictions stemmed, she shared them, and was, it seemed, prepared to gain her freedom by whatever means necessary. Yet, even as his every instinct told him to get up and snatch the weapon from her hands before she could end his life, another voice held him fast. Even after knowing her for so short a time, Izlude sensed the Beoulve girl to be among the purest of souls and that she would never shed another's blood in such a cold and vile manner. Indeed, his mind's eye showed the conflict in her face as clearly as if he were staring up at her. Her breathing, no longer smothered, became the sort of ragged heaving of air that acted as an accompaniment to the sort of indecision which arose when necessity and conscience went to war within one's very heart._

_And so, he continued to lay there, awake yet unmoving, placing himself completely at the mercy of the young woman he had taken captive from Orbonne. Blind it might be, but knowing her, and able to sense how conflicted she felt, Izlude nonetheless had faith that she would not kill a defenseless man._

_And, he was right. After what felt like half the night, he heard Alma choke back a sob and, with the sort of hearing which came only from a lifetime spent dodging well-honed steel, heard the dagger be gently lowered to her side. At that moment, Izlude finally opened his eyes and sat up to see his bed mate with the dagger he'd envisioned her holding over him but a moment ago. Though her duty to her brother urged her to slay her supposed enemy, her conscience - which condemned such an act, whatever its justification - proved the stronger._

_"What's wrong, Alma? Aren't you going to kill me?"_

_"Izlude!" she gasped "You were awake?"_

_He smiled sadly. "I'm a light sleeper and my hearing is very sharp; I awoke as soon as I felt you stirring from the bed."_

_"You knew what I intended?"_

_Izlude shook his head. "Honestly? No. But I was able to catch on quickly once I heard the knife being drawn."_

_"Then why didn't you try to stop me?_

_As if in answer, Izlude reached over and gently pried the dagger from Alma's hand. After placing it on the night table, he took her in his arms and whispered in her ear:_

_"Because I know you, Alma; you are too kind, too gentle, and pure. You may kill only if your own life was threatened but never in cold blood; such a vile act is simply against your nature."_

_Izlude found his love staring at him in amazement. "Are you not angry with me?" She had expected him to at least berate her but there was no room in his heart for anger._

_"And why would I be? If I was in your place, I could never kill the one I love."_

_"You mean…?"_

_"Yes, Alma. I love you. And if you still want my life, I will let you have it without a fight because it is yours now."_

_"But your life is your own."_

_"I give it to you..."_

_Shaking her head, she returned his embrace as she let the tears flow freely from her eyes. "No…I won't take your life because… I love you too, Izlude."_

_"Then be mine tonight…" he whispered as he reached down to pull her slip over her head and kissed her._

_"Yes, my love…"_

_Seeing her tear-filled eyes told Izlude all he needed to know. A captive Alma might have been, but the jailer's keys had changed hands. By measures small and great, Izlude had become enchanted by Alma, so much so that he felt admiration rather than anger at her aborted attempt to kill him, and one look at her tear stained face was enough for him to tell that she felt the same about him. She couldn't bring herself to kill him, not only because such a dishonorable, vile act which went against all she held dear, but because she had fallen for him. The very man who'd abducted her from Orbonne and carried her to Riovanes against her will to be used as a trump card against her brother._

_As a young, unmarried Templar, Izlude had vowed upon his honor to remain celibate until the day he wed. But, seeing the woman he loved, weeping and disconsolate over what she'd nearly done, the urge to hold and comfort her quickly swelled into something more once he'd confessed his feelings for her and discovered that she returned them in kind. His vows, his honor, his duties, all were forgotten and cast aside as he was consumed by desire for his lovely captive._

_Izlude remembered how easily Alma was seduced by him - so ironic considering that it was she who plotted to seduce and kill him to win her freedom - and that, despite her being a cleric, it was he who took vows of celibacy for the church, not her. And yet, he was willing to risk losing everything he had worked so hard for his entire life, just for a night in her arms. One kiss led to another and before they knew it, their clothes littered the floor and after he had made her his, she_ _was curled_ _in his arms again as they slept peacefully once more, the dawn approaching and, with it, an uncertain future neither would trade for the world…_

* * *

Izlude was jolted awake when the wagon suddenly hit a bump, causing the hard floor beneath him to pitch upward and nearly send him sprawling. When he came to, his gaze darted all about and, after a moment's perplexity that his beloved was nowhere in sight, he realized that he must've fallen asleep while examining Alma's locket and had relived his first night with her in his dreams. It had seemed a lifetime ago, yet he recalled it all so vividly...

...so vividly, in fact, that he suddenly found himself wondering if any in the caravan had deduced just what manner of gem he'd unearthed from beneath the veil of memory.

"Morning, good sir," a familiar voice rang out, leaving Izlude frantically suppressing a blush. "It looks like you've finally come to. Did you sleep well last night?" Fischer asked. From the look of things, the merchant appeared to have woken long before Izlude himself.

"Oh, I didn't even realize I fell asleep!" Izlude laughed as he wondered just how long his fellow passenger had been sitting there watching him. "Have you been awake long?"

"About a half hour or so," Fischer answered with ominous nonchalance. "I noticed you were mumbling in your sleep; you must have quite a lot on your mind, no?"

"Well, yes, you can say that. Did you hear what I was saying?" the knight blade asked nervously, hoping that he had not revealed any information about himself that may cause him trouble. And, even if he hadn't, he shuddered to contemplate the humiliation this journey would turn into if it got around that he'd had such a dream in their company.

"Honestly, I couldn't make out what you were saying at all," the merchant answered, shrugging as though he cared little in any case. "It sounded like gibberish to me. But, that's nothing to be embarrassed about; my wife used to say I mumble all kinds of incoherent nonsense in my sleep as well!" Fischer laughed as Izlude gave a sigh of relief. It looked like the holy stone had protected his secrets yet again.

Somewhat desperate to change the subject, Izlude asked "So what do you plan on doing once we reach Lesalia, Mr. Fischer?"

"Oh, I'm actually going home," the merchant answered. "I've spent the last half year doing business in Gallione and Favoham, and my wife and children will be expecting me back now that the war is over. I live in Central Lesalia, and I'm just glad we were well away from the city with all that happened during the war. Between that, and what I hear happened at Riovanes after I left, I'm thinking it might be best to find a way to keep my business closer to home from now on. What about you, good sir?"

"I am actually from the city of Yardow," Izlude answered, knowing he'd need his cover story to be well rehearsed. "I have a friend who lives in South Lesalia that I'm visiting for the next few days."

Curiously, a strange expression crossed the merchant's face at hearing this. One eyebrow crooked, as though in perplexity, before both eyebrows shot up into the merchant's hairline and he barked out a hearty laugh.

"Ahh…I see. So, you're _not_ going to Lesalia to join the veritable legion of men vying for the hand of Catherine Seymour, the New Duchess of Lionel?" the merchant teased, his words punctuated by more laughter.

Izlude was startled at the sudden question. "Wh-what makes you think that?" he blurted, unable to keep a note of anxiety from his tone.

The merchant laughed again, this time so heartily that it made him cough. "Oh, come now, I know of no single young man who isn't interested in Duchess Seymour. I've run into dozens of young-uns like yourself who ask me what're the best gifts to get her attention. "Who better to ask than a happily married man?" they be thinking. Well, they're right. But, if you want my advice, the way to a good woman's heart is not through coin or other worldly goods. She must grow to love the man for who he is. Not his charms nor his purse, but for the manner of man beneath the surface. You know what I mean?"

Izlude could not help but smile at just how well this merchant, who had only met Alma once and had no idea that she and Catherine were one and the same, could have such keen insight into her character. Fischer was right, Alma was not the kind of woman who could be bought with money, even though Izlude felt it was still important that he had something to offer her. Apart from proof that he had made something of himself and that he had, in some small measure, done something to rectify the pain and suffering he'd caused while acting at the behest of the high confessor and the disguised Hashmalum, he also knew that she was still going to need a home once she wed and moved out of her brother's house.

Whether they stayed in Lionel, so Alma could still be close to Ramza, whether they moved hither and yon as they aided Aldrich in rebuilding Ivalice, or whether their lives traced some other path altogether, Izlude would make sure the trove he'd discovered and won with his sword arm would keep Alma safe and well. And, more importantly, that she would have his undying love as he had promised before that fateful day at Riovanes.

"Yes, I know exactly what you mean, Mr. Fischer," he affirmed

 _And, more than you'll ever know…_ he silently added.

* * *

All through the journey to Lesalia Castle, Alma had found herself fervently wishing that Ramza and Agrias would learn to control themselves.

Whether it was how they'd become well and truly oblivious to her presence as Ramza was lavishing Agrias' neck with kisses or the mingled envy and trepidation of watching Agrias bounce Rachel on her knee while the baby giggled merrily, the Beoulve girl could not say. All she could say, however, was that she wished the pair could stop acting like such fawning lovebirds.

As they approached the outskirts of Lesalia, however, she got her wish...

...and soon wished she hadn't.

Ramza had been about to bring Rachel up to the window, no doubt to show her some pretty clouds or a bird, when his grin abruptly faded and he set his daughter on the carriage floor, hurriedly giving the baby a stuffed bear to occupy herself. That done, the young Beoulve, who was quickly joined by Agrias, stared out the window, shock and sadness writ large on their features.

Curious, and more than a bit worried, Alma sidled over and joined them in staring out the window. Greeting her was a sight that had brought her to tears when she'd accompanied Zalbag to Lesalia when he had, very, briefly restored order to the chaos which had tarnished the jewel of Ivalice.

The shanty towns.

Decrepit, filthy, cramped, dreary, looking as likely to topple over as not; even seeing them from the comparative safety of their carriage was enough to make Alma guide one hand to her belly, as though seeking to cover the eyes of her baby, lest he or she see how many scars lingered upon the world which awaited.

"This doesn't make sense," Ramza thought aloud.

"Does war ever make sense?" Alma asked, her eyes already watering as one particular bit of that same senselessness roared to the forefront of her thoughts.

"No, not just that. Look, and look carefully. What don't you see?"

 _Where do I start?_ Alma mused sadly. I don't see a place anyone would come to willingly. _I don't see a place anyone would want to linger in. I don't see any place I'd want to bring a child, or an elder, or anybody I care for. I don't see...wait a minute!_

"Where are all the people?" she asked, only belatedly realizing that the dismal sprawl of hovels seemed all but deserted.

"I'd heard tell that Delita was able to resettle them," Agrias spoke up. "It was when I was shopping for my wedding gown. There were rumors that he'd allowed the purchase of land from distressed nobles, and that new villages and towns were being built. As far as anyone knows, nearly all of the refugees will be able to move in by the end of autumn."

"But, if that's true, why leave all this standing?" Alma asked, bewildered. "If Delita managed to clear out this slum, why not tear it down and give the debris to the poor as firewood, or something like that? It doesn't make any sense for him to just leave it here after everyone was able to move out and start building better lives."

"You're right, it doesn't," Ramza agreed grimly. "I have a bad feeling about this."

On the heels of that oddity came another when they approached Lesalia's gates...or, rather, what was left of them. No less bizarre than the empty slum, there was only a gaping hole where once there'd been the ornate portal which led into the shining heart of Ivalice. Instead, pavilions flying the Chimera standard flanked the gap and, after the identification papers Delita had provided were accepted and the attendant Chimera knights waved them through, the trio saw that, contrary to her ruined gates, the city of Lesalia looked very nearly pristine.

Alma felt the blood begin to slowly drain out of her face as confusion slowly gave way to concern. What had Delita been thinking? The gates she might be able to understand, as rebuilding them would surely take months of constant labor and a huge sum of gil, but why would he leave the shanty towns untouched? Having grown up in something much akin to those loathsome hovels, he of all people knew the pain and suffering that went on in those slums and, after the terrible violence which had spread from there and into Lesalia, she doubted there was one soul who could look at that endless vista of poverty and despair without recalling just how much each and all had lost during the war. And, just as the hovels kept those wounds fresh, the still ruined gates also kept alive the fear that someday, somehow, it could all happen again.

"I have a bad feeling about this," Agrias said, echoing Alma's thoughts just as perfectly as she did Ramza's words.

Before the trio could make sense of these oddities, let alone decide what to do about Delita's inexplicable inactions, the carriage jerked to a halt. Belatedly, the small family saw that they had arrived at the gates of Lesalia Castle.

Ovelia was there to greet them, but Delita was nowhere in sight.

"Okay, now I'm worried," Alma admitted after seeing her brother and sister-in-law had noticed the same. After telling the two women to act as though nothing was amiss, at least until they had a chance to speak to Delita, the young Beoulve opened the door and stepped out of the coach.

"Here, Agrias, please take my hand." Ramza said, hiding his concern expertly as held out his hand to help his new wife step down, which was no easy task considering that she was holding their baby daughter in her arms.

"Of course, _Drake_ ," Agrias replied, taking care to use her new husband's alias as she took his hand and allowed him to help her from the carriage. Though she still bristled at Ramza's true name being the final casualty of the war, she had nonetheless been practicing the use of his pseudonym over the course of the last few weeks in order to protect his identity from those who would seek his head.

After Agrias was safely on the ground, Ramza offered his hand to his sister, who was right behind. Like his wife, she too carried precious cargo and had to be handled with care. After both Agrias and Alma were off, Ramza tossed the carriage driver a coin as a tip and sent him on his way before leading his wife and sister to the gates of Lesalia Castle. This close, and with so many eyes likely pointed in their direction, they didn't dare discuss the ominous peculiarities they'd witnessed on the way in. For now, they elected to wait and see if a chance to speak with Delita presented itself. If not, they would wait until their friends arrived and they could find somewhere private to concoct a plan. Rad, Lavian, and Alicia were not far behind and would be arriving soon, along with Beowulf, Reis, Manon and Charlotte. The former Templar, whose respect towards women was well known as being impeccable, had been quite eager to take Manon to task over the boy's less-than-chivalrous conduct while Reis, sensing that Ramza and company might have things to say regarding Ivalice's monarchs which were best kept private, had volunteered to see if Alma had gotten through to Charlotte after the latter's latest night spent nursing an ill-used stomach.

As they drew nearer, and caught sight of the new queen of Ivalice, Alma felt yet another chill ripple through her. Though Ovelia greeted them with a broad smile on her face, hiking up her skirts and breaking into a run, Alma could've sworn that she'd spied something more than delight on her old friend's face. There had been a fraction of a heartbeat of worry on her features just before the trio exited the coach and, afterwards, the Beoulve girl could swear that there'd been a hint of relief, the sort of desperate relief which might cross the face of one who'd spied a lit cabin after a night spent wandering a goblin infested wood, before Ovelia had thrown her arms around her former bodyguard. And, judging by the way Agrias' expression had hardened for an instant, she too saw that life had not become easier for her young charge since taking Ruvelia's place as queen.

"Oh, Agrias, I've missed you so much!" Ovelia cried, very nearly wailing the words before turning to the slumbering infant in the holy knight's arms. "Congratulations, Agrias! She is so adorable! May I?"

"Of course, Your Highness," the holy knight answered as she handed her infant daughter to her queen and watched as Ovelia gently rocked Rachel in her arms before turning to the young parents with a smile.

"How old is she?" she asked, smiling but strangely subdued.

"About two months," Ramza answered evenly. "I trust Delita has told you about her?"

"Yes, the king did inform me, Lord Seymour," Ovelia replied, and the Beoulve girl gulped silently at the queen's formal tone. "When I heard the news, I just couldn't wait to meet her. She's such a lovely girl. Congratulations to you both, I'm very happy for you."

After handing Rachel back to her parents, the queen turned to greet her other friend who had been watching in silence and gave her a hug as well. And, though Alma hoped she was reading much too far into the situation, she could not help but feel as though the grip Ovelia had on her was much like that with which a castaway at sea would grip a piece of flotsam to keep from drowning. Something was going on in Lesalia. Something bad.

 _As if I didn't have enough problems already_ ," she mused despondently.

 _"Lady Catherine_ , welcome to Lesalia Castle," Ovelia said, carefully using her old friend's alias so as not to arouse the suspicions of any servants or guards within earshot. "I've been looking forward to meeting you as well. The king and I have been planning a ball for both you and Lord Drake, but especially for you. We must make haste, the first night of the ball starts tomorrow, so I must have my personal seamstresses start on your new gowns right away."

Alma was startled. New gowns? She didn't need any more gowns. Although she'd emerged from the Graveyard of Airships with but her school gown, which was in ghastly condition by then, Alicia and Lavian had, somewhat overzealously, rebuilt her wardrobe from the moment they could freely come and go from Lionel Castle. What was wrong with the, already too numerous, gowns she already had?

"Your Highness, you need not trouble yourself, really," Alma politely declined. "I do have enough of my own gowns and the ball is only going to be three nights, right?"

"Yes, but you and your brother are here to be introduced to the Ivalician public as the new Duke and Duchess of Lionel," Ovelia countered. "So, you must have the finest clothes and accessories. Not to mention you need to find a husband soon, if what the king told me about you is true..."

Still close enough that no one outside their huddle would notice, Ovelia had underscored her point by laying a hand on the Beoulve girl's belly. Alma blushed and wanted to argue, but seeing the concern in her friend's eyes made her think better of it. Perhaps Ovelia was right; it simply would not do for her, as Lionel's new duchess, to be introduced to the public looking anything less than perfection, for she knew Lesalian culture well enough to know that a poor first impression would hang over their heads for years. Not to mention that she needed to be wed as soon as possible, lest the child growing in her womb enter the world out of wedlock. By now, she was nearing her fourth month, and her gown had begun to pull tight about her belly.

In a matter of weeks, a blind man would be able to tell she was with child, and she shuddered to consider how being born fatherless would mark her child all his or her life.

"You're right, Your Highness," she conceded. "I will trust your judgment."

Ovelia breathed a sigh of relief that her normally stubborn friend wasn't going to argue with her on this. "Thank you. Please come inside, I already have rooms prepared for all of you and I will send my personal chief seamstress to your room to have you measured immediately."

After gesturing for Ramza and Agrias to move in closer, Ovelia added in a hushed tone "Annie is a good woman, and I trust her nearly as much as I trust Agrias. I am confident we can rely on her...discretion."

Alma hesitated for a moment as she turned to her brother and new sister-in-law, who nodded their approval.

"Go on, Catherine." Ramza urged. "The others and I will be fine. Once the castle servants are done bringing our things to our rooms, we'll catch up to you. You need to have your new gowns ready as soon as possible."

Here, Ramza too moved in close and his next words came as a whisper. "We'll see if we can find Delita on our own. Either way, you need to focus on yourself and your baby."

Alma sighed as she gave a quick curtsy before allowing Ovelia to take her hand and guide her into the castle, her eternally heavy heart weighed down all the more by what these dreadful oddities might signify.

Ovelia referring to Delita by his title rather than his name was particularly troubling, not only because Alma had thought them a loving pair but because it acted as an oblique sign of what Alma's own future might look like.

* * *

If Alma hadn't been certain of the urgency of her situation before, she certainly was now.

Charlotte had not been the only young lady under 'Drake Seymour's' roof to have been gaining weight recently.

After one of the younger seamstresses had instructed her to undress, Alma found herself gaping at the mirror when she realized that she'd underestimated just how much she was showing. What she'd thought was a subtle curve of the belly was quite a bit more noticeable without her loose gown to conceal it. No less alarming, her once diminutive breasts had also begun to swell and her once narrow hips now flared wider. At the sight of her reflection and her secret being, quite literally, exposed, the Beoulve girl swore she could hear the sands of the hourglass sifting away as the inevitable drew nearer and nearer.

So stunned with the realization was Alma that she hadn't noticed the older woman with the measuring tape until the lengths of cloth were pulled tight about her person.

"Lady Catherine, how's this?" the seamstress, a plump woman in her forties, asked, drawing the measuring tape tight about Alma's waist as she measured her chest and bust as well as legs to determine her skirt length.

The Beoulve girl, who belatedly realized that was standing on a stool, started at the seamstress' question.

While Ovelia had the finest tailors and seamstresses at her beck and call to ensure that Alma's gowns would be made quickly and of the best quality possible, it had been a far greater relief that her chief seamstress, Annie Choxi, was also one of her closest confidants. The middle-aged woman, who had either been informed of Alma's situation or had easily guessed it, could be trusted to measure Alma's changing body and keep her pregnancy a secret by masterfully tailoring gowns that could conceal any hint of the child growing inside of her. There had been some concern about Annie's subordinates; but, luckily, it seemed they would simply adhere to her instructions without question.

"It's a bit tight, could you loosen it up a bit, please?" Alma asked politely.

"Of course, Lady Catherine," Annie said as she loosened the measuring tape. "How are you feeling, milady?"

"Oh, I'm fine, the measuring tape was just a bit too snug for comfort."

"I understand," Annie replied and, after a quick glance to make sure no one was present without her consent, added "Not to mention your child had best be handled delicately. Queen Ovelia has told me to take care, as carrying such precious cargo can make a woman more fragile. But you need not worry, I have much experience tailoring gowns for other women in your situation."

"You have?" Alma blurted out, startled.

"Yes, trust me, you are not the only women who's ever grown heavy with child before the nuptials." As Annie said this, Alma did not sense any hint of reproach, which she'd expected to hear once the older woman learned she was pregnant out of wedlock.

As if sensing her train of thought, Annie laughed. "You need not worry, milady, your secret is safe with me. I judge no one, for I know how easily it can come back to bite you when you're passing judgment on others when you've never walked in their shoes. In fact, I've even tailored such a gown for the late Queen Ruvelia back in the day."

Alma blinked. "You mean Queen Ruvelia was pregnant even before she married King Omdolia?"

Annie nodded. "Yes…and she was a bit further along than you. Her brother, the late Duke Larg, hired me to tailor some gowns for her. He was...beyond clear that he wanted no one who attended the royal couple's wedding to be able to tell that Queen Ruvelia was pregnant, and I knew better than to give him less than my utmost. By the sound of it, I'm guessing you were fooled?"

"I was probably too young to attend, but I never heard anyone mention it. Ever. Was King Omdolia the father?"

Annie shrugged. "Who knows? Given how sickly the former king was, it wouldn't have surprised me if none of the children Queen Ruvelia bore were his." As the seamstress said this, Alma could clearly hear the contempt which edged her voice. Though she never said so explicitly, Alma had the clear impression that Annie had no love or loyalty for her former liege; few people ever did, considering the former queen's spiteful nature and the way that her detractors tended to meet an untimely demise.

As though startled by her grim thoughts, the baby gave a sudden lurch, prompting Alma to forcibly direct her thoughts in a more pleasant direction...well, try to, at least.

"I see…," Alma said as she tried not to let the words sink in deep enough to reach her child. Sensing the Beoulve girl's discomfiture, Annie decided to change the subject.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't speak ill of the dead like that," Annie said, though Alma sensed that little of the older woman's contrition was directed at the deceased. "What about you, milady? I am curious to know what the father of your child was like."

"Oh, well, he was a Templar…," Alma replied; she might've considered the possibility that revealing even that much might be unwise but, with Ramza and the others likely tied up questioning Delita, and Manon and Charlotte still hours away, she felt too alone to not trust the older woman's discretion. "He was a very handsome one, to whom I was engaged briefly before he was killed in the war."

"A Templar? Was he a high-ranking one? From what I've heard, most of them were killed or had gone missing during the war, including their leader, Sir Vormav Tingel."

Alma shuddered at the name of the knight...or, rather, the demon who'd evicted the man's soul from his body and had attempted and failed to offer her as a sacrifice to Altima before answering. "No, he was but a junior officer. He perished in the incident at Riovanes, before we could wed. I still miss him, God rest his soul."

Annie frowned as she immediately regretted bringing up the baby's father.

"My apologies, milady. I didn't mean to dredge up such sad memories for you."

Alma shook her head. "No, not at all, please don't apologize. I feel that it's good for me to talk about him every now and then. It helps to keep his memory alive, and I think I needed to be reminded of what he would've wanted me to do if he knew...what was going to happen."

"I see. Well, whoever he was, I'm sure he would want you and your baby to live on and be happy."

"Yes, I believe so as well."

 


	16. The Road to Lesalia, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was getting long so I've decided to split it into two parts. The lovely art of Meliadoul and Mustadio is by ARISA777o-w-o of DeviantArt!

Once he'd heard the caravan's lead driver announce that they have finally arrived at Lesalia, Izlude vaulted to his feet, nearly cracking his head on the wagon's ceiling, and brushed aside the nearest flap to peek outside. After seeing that, at long last, he'd reached his destination, he thanked Fischer once more for the locket and bid the merchant farewell. Stretching the kinks out of his limbs, the knight blade snatched up his belongings and leapt off the wagon, rounding the caravan to fetch Nelly from the boy who'd been left in charge of caring for the passengers' chocobos. Even though Izlude chose to walk Nelly into town, and even after he'd traded the bulk of his loot for paper money while only retaining a few gold articles as well as some trinkets for Alma, thus allowing him to put his entire fortune on the back of his only mount, Nelly still staggered under the weight of her master's possessions. Though the sturdy animal was soon upright and plodding along determinedly, the knight blade knew Nelly well enough to spy the reproachful glare she'd sent in his direction. Deciding it would be best to relieve his chocobo of her burden as soon as possible, Izlude paid little heed to the ruined gates of his home city and made his way to the nearest counting house. For what felt like the thousandth time, Izlude could sense the gaze of everyone he passed swiveling in his direction. Rolling his eyes, and wondering if that would be how someone who'd likely been stared at like that most of his life would react, he continued onward, hoping the counting house in question had survived the war.

If it hadn't, he shuddered to contemplate what might ensue the next time he tried to climb into Nelly's saddle.

Quickly reviewing what he knew, Izlude remembered that, as a child, his parents would take him and Meliadoul with them to this particular counting house at least once a month. This would usually occur shortly after Vormav received his pay from the high confessor. He remembered that his father, who'd been a fastidious sort even before falling to Hashmalum, would unfailingly store a portion of his income at the counting house while keeping the rest at home in a vault, along with an assortment of family records and treasures. His mother, an art teacher whose salary was quite modest by comparison, would combine their incomes and manage the family's money. The knight blade could not help but smile at the irony that, even though his family's wealth was lost to him and that he'd had to build a new fortune from scratch, he had managed to amass a greater fortune in three days by eliminating the phantoms of Gollund than his family had in three generations.

Though the all too familiar counting house soon loomed ahead, the street leading to it was vastly different than he recalled. Apart from the gates having never been rebuilt, even though the rest of the city looked vibrant and bustling, many of the homes and businesses he'd recalled seeing along the way were either gone, replaced, or had changed hands. In some places, unfamiliar storefronts greeted him where veritable fixtures of his childhood once stood while, in others, familiar goods were gathered beneath familiar signs, but were peddled by unfamiliar faces. In a way, it was equal parts a relief to see the city now flourishing, where once it had nearly been torn asunder by violence, and yet it was jarring to see that, though the city yet stood tall and proud, it was not as he'd remembered.

Was it truly better now, as he'd often heard in voices soft and loud since awakening on the Fredericks' little farm? He supposed that question could wait another day because, for now, he had more immediate concerns to attend to.

Arriving at the counting house, he unbuckled Nelly's saddlebags, which were bulging with money, and told her to stay put until he returned. Sensing the chocobo was glad to be rid of her burden, and promptly sensing why, Izlude opened the door and heaved his loot over the threshold with a mighty grunt. Even though he was carrying his fortune of gil largely in paper money instead of the customary minted coin, Izlude could swear that his spine felt ready to crack under the load. On the way to Lesalia, he'd heard of a roundup of opium dealers whose supply had had a street value of some six million gil, and he was certain he was lugging around at least a comparable sum.

When he staggered his way to the teller, a young woman who reminded him more than a little of the innkeeper he'd met in Dorter, he became all too aware that he was being stared at yet again. Ordinarily, this would've caused him only a mild irritation, but since those gawking at him made no move to help him with his burden, he had to smother more than a few ill feelings. He was shaken from his incredulity, however, when the stone pulsed in his pocket and Izlude forcibly calmed himself. As he continued towards the teller, somewhat unnerved by his own temper, he wondered if he would ever be able to get used to sensing every eye on him. For that matter, would it make his guise more convincing if he let his hot-blooded side show at such scrutiny? Or, since Damien likely would have grown up being stared at in such a fashion, would it behoove Izlude to learn to treat it with humor, or ignore it completely? He had no answer when, at last, he heaved the saddlebag up to land in front of the still gawking teller and, as if sensing Izlude's displeasure, and that he hadn't been impressed that she hadn't sent someone to help him, the woman immediately snapped from her daze and apologized profusely.

"Oh, I'm sorry, sir! Forgive me for staring!" she blubbered. "Can I help you?"

"I certainly hope so," Izlude replied, trying to keep a note of sternness from his voice, though the woman winced regardless. "Sorry, it's been a hard day. Anyhow, I am new to this town and need to open an account. My name is Damien Mitchell."

"I see. And how much would you like to deposit today?"

Instead of answering, and sensing the teller would never believe the amount without seeing it, the knight blade took a quick look around to make sure none of the others in the bank looked particularly threatening before he started emptying the contents of Nelly's saddlebags on the counter. Even though he kept one-tenth of the bills in his purse as pocket money, the stacks of bills and the small golden articles he placed before the teller still added up to an astounding amount of money. Before he was even half through, the woman's eyes popped and, as he finished, she removed and wiped her spectacles, as though half expecting the plethora of wealth to shrink once the lenses were clean.

"Sir, I've never seen so much money in my life!" she nearly blurted before seeing Izlude make a gesture for her to keep her voice down.

Taking the hint, the teller lowered her voice to a whisper "Are you that ghostbuster everyone here is talking about?"

Izlude was puzzled. "Whatever are you talking about, milady?"

As if in answer, the teller produced and handed over what looked to be a thick roll of vellum. Curious, Izlude unrolled it and, staring back at him was a header displaying the phrase _**The Lesalia Times**_ in broad, stylized letters. Having seen scribes spend weeks of round-the-clock effort to produce a single volume of a single collection, the knight blade was bewildered to discover page after page after page of text.

"You've never seen a newspaper before?" the teller asked, though already seeming to sense the answer. "They did come about just after the war ended, so that's understandable."

Since there was no line of impatient depositors behind Izlude, he decided to use this opportunity to plug another of the many holes in his knowledge of postwar Ivalice. Much to his amazement, he learned that these 'newspapers' were printed, by the thousands, using a machine known as a printing press. Izlude had heard of such a device in the days immediately preceding King Omdolia's death. According to rumor, a Limberry machinist named Johannes had touted the device as able to do, in a matter of minutes, the work ten thousands scribes could be expected to produce in a week, and that such could allow books, once as expensive as fine jewelry, to be produced overnight and sold for a pittance. According to the teller, King Delita had made a point of investing in this innovation, seeking to promote a boom in literacy amongst the populace and, in the case of these newspapers, a freer flow of information regarding the current events of the kingdom, be they societal, economical, cultural, or glorified gossip.

Despite lingering concerns over what Delita's monopolizing the credit for Ivalice's revivification would mean later on, Izlude had to admit that he was impressed. Underhanded though his motives might be, Delita's decision to finance the development of a machine that could produce books and newspapers in the twinkling of an eye could change the course of countless Ivalician lives. In fact, after having already done just that by saving the Consortium, Izlude found himself wondering if Damien Mitchell might discover himself as possessing a philanthropic side, and deciding to change Ivalice for the better once again.

 _Well, if so, I'd say I've found my first investment_ , he mused.

With the teller's guidance, the knight blade navigated the sea of text and he nearly fell over when he saw an article about himself titled 'The Ghostbuster of Gollund'. Skimming it, he saw that it was an eyewitness account of his exorcism of the phantoms that haunted the Gollund mines. Could it be that, while he wasn't looking, there were others besides Gerde who'd witnessed his exorcism? If so, had anyone realized that banishing undead spirits was something that was normally performed by confessors of the Church of Glabados, and that most other warriors lacked the divine magics or weapons needed for such a task?

If so, he found himself wondering how he might give answer if someone from the church came around looking for an explanation.

Even if his burgeoning alias could hold up under their scrutiny, he knew that, as was the case with suspected heretics, confessors were not the sorts to be easily deterred. And, regardless, it was a delay he could not afford in his quest for Alma's hand.

As if his strange appearance wasn't drawing enough attention, word of his heroic deeds seem to travel fast, somehow becoming common knowledge during the week he had spent on the road from Gollund to Lesalia.

To top it all off, an illustration of his deeds - stamped rather than painted, but easily recognizable - was included in the article, accompanied by the caption 'He ain't afraid a no ghost!'

 _Why in blazes did the phrase 'who ya gonna call?'_ just flash through my head? Izlude silently pondered.

"I don't believe it," the knight blade muttered, trying not to betray his annoyance at the unwanted attention this would surely garner. "This is the first time I've heard of it."

"So, it was you who put the phantoms of Gollund to rest, wasn't it?" the teller asked, unable to hide her amazement or her admiration...or her plans to gossip about this to every coworker she could find. "Thanks to you, the miners have returned and the company you worked for can continue their work in peace."

"Well, I appreciate the sentiment, but I would appreciate it even more if you kept quiet about this for now." Here, Izlude paused and, wondering if the stone might reinforce his words, added "I have business of great importance in this city, and I'd rather not draw any more attention to myself then I already have."

Perhaps the urgency in his tone shone through. Maybe it was respect for what he'd done in Gollund. Or, it was possible that the stone lent a weight to his words that bent the teller's thoughts in his favor. Whatever the reason, the teller nodded.

"Of course, sir. I understand it must be awkward and uncomfortable for you, since you don't seem used to such...notoriety. So, you wish to deposit all of this today?"

"Yes, please."

After making his deposit, Izlude filled out the appropriate parchments to open the account. Just before he was about to leave, the teller spoke up once more.

"Beg your pardon, sir. But, that article said you were a third generation Romandan immigrant. If I may ask, is it true Romandans eat shark?"

 _Déjà vu?_ Izlude asked himself, before hurriedly confirming it and leaving the counting house.

He quickly returned to claim his mount, who seemed happy to be relieved of her burden and secured Nelly's saddlebags before taking her by the reins to venture further into the city. After sitting on the caravan's wagon for such a long time, the knight blade preferred to walk, hoping to get the circulation in his legs going again. As he looked around at his home city, recalling once more that this was his first visit since he'd left for Murond to train as a Templar, Izlude suppressed his nostalgia long enough to take note of the new shops that had opened in his absence. This reminded him that he would be needing new clothes and accessories before he could attend the ball and vie for the hand of 'Duchess Seymour'. But before that, there was a place he wanted to visit for old time's sake.

His old home, situated in the wealthiest district of Ivalice's capital, the Tingel manor.

Izlude had not been back in the nearly ten years since his mother passed away, so he was more than a bit surprised when he managed to find his way back there with nary a wrong turn. When he arrived at the gates, he could not help the stinging in his eyes at the, largely, undamaged state of the manor.

This close to the castle, a confrontation here between Lesalia's warring populaces would've provoked a response from the castle guard...which might very well have turned into a massacre. Yet, though the sprawling manor loomed before him with almost cruel familiarity, it yet remained barred to him after his 'death'.

And, as he'd learned in hindsight, it had never truly been the same since his mother's death.

He was roused from his introspection, however, when he spotted a familiar face tending to the gardens outside the house- one of the Tingel family's long-time servants...and, indeed, the only one who yet held that distinction. Donavan Dawson, an elderly man in his sixties, was a man of humble origins, but one of the wisest Izlude had ever known. So much so, in fact, that even Vormav himself sought his advice from time to time.

At first, the knight blade was hesitant to call out to his father's old friend out of fear of being recognized. But, his curiosity over whether Meliadoul had returned to claim their family home or if it was now property of the crown, as was the Beoulves' former home in Igros, got the better of him.

"Excuse me, sir!" he called out, disliking the sudden lump in his throat.

The old man, whose hearing had not dulled with the passing of years, turned at the sound of Izlude's voice.

"Yes, and who might you be, sir?" he asked, his voice betraying only friendly interest.

"I am but a humble courier. I have been traveling for some weeks with a message for Sir Vormav Tingel. Yet, by the time I arrived, I'd heard of his disappearance. I understand this is his residence, and wondered if he or any of his children have returned."

Donavan spent a long moment staring at Izlude, his slightly blurry eyes squinting at the knight blade's face as though searching his features for something elusive...

...such as, perhaps, a curious resemblance to his late young master?

Izlude honestly was not sure whether to feel relief or regret when Donavan, apparently not finding what he sought, smothered a sad sigh.

"Oh, is that so?" he asked, his brisk friendliness back in place. "Well, unfortunately, Sir Vormav has not been found. And, his son, Sir Izlude, God rest his soul, was killed in the war. But, Dame Meliadoul has survived and had recently returned to claim their family home. I almost didn't recognize her, for she has grown up quite tall and beautiful. Unfortunately, she is not home at the moment. She said she'd return, but didn't say when."

Izlude had to struggle most valiantly to keep his relief from showing on his face. So his sister did survive the War of the Lions, as he had surmised from the visions the holy stone had shown him during his brief stay in the afterlife. What's more, she did return to claim their family home. Though he was disappointed at not being able to see his sister, he was nonetheless aware that he wouldn't know what to say to Meliadoul, even if she had been at home. And, of course, that was assuming that she would even recognize him with his new appearance or that she'd believe him if he told her he'd been revived by the holy stone.

Even so, he had wanted to know if she was well and how she was coping with his and their 'father's' deaths. Since they were children, the knight blade had idolized his elder sister and always believed her to be a better fighter and more competent commander than he, far more fit to lead the Templar alongside their father. And, though he'd never confronted her about it, Izlude also strongly suspected that Meliadoul had purposely held herself back so that he could take the position of the Templar's second-in-command.

More than once, he'd found himself wondering just under what circumstances she'd ended up joining Ramza's motley band. He still remembered, with horrifying clarity, how Ramza had impaled her with his sword - likely by accident or unthinking instinct, since he'd been trying to convince her that he had not been Izlude's killer at the time - and how both Tingels had been amazed when Ramza had used a rare elixir to not only snatch Meliadoul back from death but to mend her wounds in full.

The knight blade sometimes contemplated what might've happened if Meliadoul had pressed the attack, and such suppositions rarely ended well.

The knight blade was startled when Donavan suddenly chuckled.

"That's quite a bit of heavy thinking you're involved in," he teased, and Izlude couldn't help but blush. Donavan always had a knack for sensing other people's moods no matter how they tried to conceal them. "Well, if you seek to catch the young mistress' eye, you'd best know you've got some competition."

"Oh, certainly not!" Izlude waved aside, pointedly reminded that even wise men could misread a situation. "My heart is already given and...wait, what?"

Though Meliadoul had been known to have a flirtatious streak - at least, before Izlude's 'death' and, presumably, learning the truth about their father's subversion by the Lucavi - she'd rarely shown any true interest in the would-be suitors that always seemed to crop up in her wake. And, considering the cold and desolate state she'd been in during his vision, he'd doubted that would change anytime soon.

Could he have been wrong? And, regardless, how could he find out without arousing suspicion?

Yet, much as had been the case in his youth, Donavan provided the answer.

"It has been much too quiet here of late," he said, as much to himself as his visitor. "And, lovely these flowers might be, they're not very good listeners. Might you stay a while, and hear an old man's story?"

Part of Izlude was leery at the prospect, for he had still more to do and the risk of the old gardener somehow recognizing him yet persisted. But, at the same time, Izlude also recalled how loyal Donavan had been to his family, even when matters in the Tingel household began their unhappy turn. What's more, he sensed that, with Meliadoul absent and the rest of the family dead or presumed so, the old gardener, indeed, had been quite lonely of late.

If all Izlude could give the loyal old gardener was a few minutes of being a good listener, he felt he owed Donavan that much.

"I believe I can make the time," the knight blade said, and hoped he wasn't wrong.

"Well, a young man, perhaps a year or so younger than Dame Meliadoul, had been popping in of late, asking for her," Donavan began. "Bit of an odd duck, but sharp-witted by the looks of him. He wore the garb of those machinists, who are always poking around those tunnels down in Goug, and had a belt crammed with tools about his middle. What really struck me was that he had a whole case of guns, like those the Romandans use, with him."

Here, Donavan paused and chuckled.

"He said he was delivering a shipment to a buyer here in Lesalia, and that he wanted to see if Dame Meliadoul was home while he was in the area. Claimed he met her during the war, but that he'd lost touch after. I was a bit leery at first, but that boyish blushing of his told me all I needed to know."

A machinist from Goug? And, one who'd known Meliadoul from the war?

Izlude promptly flashed back to the dossiers he'd read on the supposed accomplices of the 'heretic' Ramza, and soon came up with a name.

Mustadio Bunanza.

His dossier had described him as an ingenious machinist, well versed even in the lost technologies from the time of St. Ajora, as well as being a deadly marksman. However, his recollection of the parchment's dubious contents shed no light on why Mustadio would be lurking on Meliadoul's doorstep...let alone why he'd be blushing while asking about her.

"And, did he meet her?" he asked, his curiosity once more prevailing over his caution.

"Oh, young man!" Donavan boomed, laughing that hearty laugh that had always coaxed a smile from the Tingel children no matter their mood. "That is a mighty understatement!"

* * *

_Though the old gardener had known better than to crowd his young mistress, he wasn't about to let her out of his sight either._

_And so, despite the veritable deluge of questions waiting to burst free of his lips, Donavan had maintained a discreet distance as he watched Meliadoul wander the halls in silence._

_Almost funereal silence._

_Though whispers had reached Donavan's ears about the comings and goings of, quite possibly, the sole survivor of House_ Tingel _, he'd heard nothing from his mistress' own mouth. Not one letter bearing her seal had reached him and, though he'd been profoundly relieved when she'd appeared on the manor's doorstep, alive and whole, she had yet to enlighten him as to what had happened to her._

_Still, he could hazard a guess or two._

_He had heard tell for some time that his young master, Sir Izlude, was dead, though it was only the bleak expression on Meliadoul's face that had, at last, undone his denial. And, though he was tempted to inquire as to the fate of Sir Vormav, something in the divine knight's slumped posture and dead eyes caused him to fear the worst._

_Still silent, and yet her silence speaking volumes, Meliadoul had sauntered, trancelike, into the manor's training hall. Padded with thick cushions and dotted with training dummies and racked weapons of many descriptions, this room had been the site of many a duel meant to confer a martial education, from father to son, across the Tingel line's long history. Many_ a bout _had been waged here, with steel swords as often as wooden, and innumerable hours of toil and sweat had seeped into the venerable woodwork._

_Yet, since the Tingel family had departed, Vormav to helm the late High Confessor Marcel's campaign and the children to undergo their formal training as Templars, the training room had stood unused and forgotten, save by those who beat back the persistent tides of dust._

_Now, however, a Tingel had returned at long last to draw steel in this forge which had honed and tempered her forefathers._

_Though Donavan's own education with the sword was minute it did not take him long to glean that her fighting style was much different than that of either Sir Vormav or what he'd remembered Izlude and Meliadoul using prior to their departure for formalized training. Rather than the stylish grace that characterized many female Templars, Meliadoul now fought with a penumbral ferocity that caused the old gardener to warily draw back a pace. The divine knight fought using aggressive lunges and overpowering slashes that would've cleave a man in half but clearly eschewed form and finesse in favor of overwhelming force._

_This left Donavan perplexed, for surely the Templars would never have permitted such a haphazard fighting technique, but comprehension dawned when Meliadoul suddenly sagged to the floor, utterly spent, and yet her desolate expression still on her features._

_She had been trying to weary herself to the bone, to leave her mind_ _too fallow a field for inner demons to reap a harvest. Yet, though the display had made Donavan feel like he'd aged a year just watching, he was amazed when Meliadoul was soon on her feet again and once more took up her blade._

_The old gardener, who'd remembered the young and vivacious Meliadoul of years past, felt his heart crash to the floor just as surely as Meliadoul herself did as she once more reached the limits of her incredible endurance. And yet, though her brow streamed and every breath was a wheezing gasp, the divine knight offered herself as little respite as her grief must've, for she was soon on her feet and hacking at the air once more._

_The old gardener, concerned and more than a bit frightened by this manic display, suddenly found himself hoping that the young machinist who'd been lurking upon his mistress' doorstep might reappear. If he had known Meliadoul during the war, might he know how to get through to her? It seemed possible if the machinist had known what had happened to turn the last Tingel from a swashbuckling vixen to this disconsolate creature he now beheld._

_Hopefully, the machinist hadn't been scared off when Donavan threatened to start charging him rent if he kept visiting._

_His fears were allayed, however, when he heard a knock at the door and, sure enough, an all too familiar young man stood at the threshold. The phrase 'she's here' had briefly brought the sort of grin to the machinist's face which one might expect of a child on Yuletide Morning; but, perhaps Donavan had let his anxiety show for the machinist soon sobered and gestured for him to lead the way. Once the two men were within earshot of the training hall, the machinist raced ahead of the old gardener and darted inside. Rounding the corner a stretching second later, a wheezing Donavan peered inside to see Meliadoul once more slumped to the floor, but this time with the machinist having caught her partway through her fall and gently lowering her to the mat._

_Donavan found one of his gray eyebrows arching at the scene. Though Meliadoul had caught the eye of a great many young men, most of which were a finer catch than the young machinist, nearly all either coveted her wealth or her beauty. Or both._ _What's_ _more, most lost patience_ , _as was the wont of young people, after two or three inquiries as to Dame Meliadoul's whereabouts. By contrast, this machinist had been popping up so often that Donavan had gyrated between whether to take him on as an assistant or to alert the local constabulary. What's more, there was no mistaking the alarm on his face at the sight of Meliadoul, nor the earnest concern behind each gesture as he drew her limp form against his own._

_The old gardener was so deep in his musings over what this might mean that it took him a moment to realize that the machinist has been shouting at him for some time._

_"Oh!" he blurted, embarrassed. "Forgive me, I was undone by-"_

_"Nevermind that," the machinist cut him off, his tone urgent. "It looks like she's passed out from exhaustion. Is there somewhere I can take her where she can rest?"_

_"The drawing room is nearby. Let me-"_

_Donavan soon found his eyebrows once more vanishing into his hairline when the machinist rose and, drawing Meliadoul up with him, draped one of her arms over his shoulder. He likely meant to walk her to the drawing room, though the first few steps soon illustrated that such a technique might not avail him since Meliadoul was the tallest of the pair. Given the machinist's emotive face, the old gardener had half expected a hint of embarrassment at this miscalculation, but he saw_ only _desperate worry on the youth's face as he plodded along, awkwardly but determinedly, to the drawing room. Upon reaching it, he set Meliadoul onto one of the plush chairs that dotted the long deserted chamber and, as though only belatedly realizing the strain of his task, began to roll his shoulders and massage his back._

_"Would some tea help?" Donavan asked, wondering if a soothing drink might provide some answers. "I can get the fire going in the hearth if it pleases you."_

_"Yes, thank you," the machinist replied, gratefully settling onto another chair._

_As the old gardener set the kettle to boil, he stole a glance over his shoulder at the two young people. Meliadoul hadn't stirred, though he suspected that might be for the best. Apart from the evidence of her manic session in the training hall, how her brow streamed and the veins in her neck bulged, even his aged eyes could discern the shadows pooling beneath her eyes. No less obvious, however, was the way the machinist made a poor show of waiting for his tea. Rather than specify what blend he wanted or how much sugar, he seemed to forget the frothy liquid almost immediately. Instead, he seemed to glance over at the slumbering divine knight with every other breath and, whenever she seemed to stir, he was half out of his chair before realizing it was only her emerald cloak rustling, at which point he'd dejectedly seat himself once more._

_"You say you knew Dame Meliadoul during the war?" Donavan asked, struggling to keep his tone from betraying the depth of his curiosity as he poked at the burning logs with the fire iron._

_The machinist, who'd been staring meditatively into the fire started at the old gardener's voice, then calmed himself and gave a sheepish grin._

_"Sorry about that," he began. "And, yes. We met...not long after the Battle of Fort Besselat. I was fighting alongside Ra...Drake Seymour. You may have heard of him?"_

_The old gardener suspected that the fire iron falling free of his suddenly nerveless fingers was more confirmation than any words he might offer._

_"Drake Seymour?" Donavan repeated, stunned. "_ The _Drake Seymour? The future Duke of Lionel, cousin to His Majesty, King Delita, and a hero of Ivalice?"_

_It might've been the old gardener's imagination, but he could've sworn that a hint of smugness worked its way across the machinist's face._

_"Don't tell him that, you'll embarrass him," he gasped out before a fit of laughter seized him._

_"Still, it is an honor to meet one of Lord Seymour's esteemed company. And, it does my heart good to know that Dame Meliadoul was not alone in her time of..."_

_The old gardener couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence but, luckily, the machinist seemed to understand and spared him the trouble._

_"So, you already know about Izlude, then?" he asked gravely._

_"That's_ Sir _Izlude," the old gardener corrected, though with more sadness than pride. "But, yes. And, though milady hasn't said so, I'm guessing Sir Vormav is gone too?_

_"I'm afraid so." Here, the machinist paused to once more gaze at Meliadoul, and Donavan could swear he saw the younger man's eyes mist slightly. "She found the...people responsible and gave them their due, but I don't think that was enough."_

_"I fear you may right." Donavan had to admit, though the machinist was young, even younger than Meliadoul if he had to guess, there was no mistaking the depth of emotion in his youthful eyes._

_Meliadoul was more to him than simply a comrade-in-arms. Possibly, a great deal more._

_"It seems I've misjudged your intent," the old gardener admitted, extending a hand. "I don't believe I ever got your name. I am Donavan Dawson, and I've been the gardener here since, oh, perhaps before Dame Meliadoul and Sir Izlude were born. And, you are?"_

_"Mustadio Bunanza," the machinist replied, shaking Donavan's hand. "It's good to meet you, but I wish it were under better circumstances."_

_"Don't we all?"_

_The two men spent some time bantering about, mostly with Donavan asking questions about Mustadio's involvement in the war. Though some of the answers he received sounded as though Mustadio was withholding details, the old gardener found himself impressed with the story of how the machinist had escaped the hired blades of the, since dissolved, Baert Trading Company, how he'd joined Lord Seymour in rescuing his father and, in gratitude once the rescue was accomplished, followed the future duke throughout the war, offering his gunnery skills to supplement Seymour's blade._

_Before the old gardener could pose the question of just how he and Meliadoul knew each other, the divine knight stirred once more and, at long last, opened her eyes._

_"Mustadio?" she asked groggily._

_The machinist looked as though he'd been poised to let a grin split open his face, but he restrained himself when he saw that the divine knight wasn't nearly as enthusiastic._

_"What are you doing here?" she asked, and Donavan felt his heart sink at how there was nary an echo of the vivaciousness of times past in her tone._

_"I..." Mustadio began, and a blind man could see the redness emerging from his cheeks. "I was...just in the area, doing business and...well... Okay, I'll admit it. I was...worried about you."_

_The divine knight said nothing in reply, choosing only to stare into the dancing flames in the hearth. Mustadio, after taking a fortifying swig of tea (and promptly regretting his neglecting to ask for sugar) approached Meliadoul. When she gave no sign of objecting to his presence, he dragged one of the other chairs near hers, making a most dreadful racket as the legs squealed against the marble. Swallowing an embarrassed chuckle, he settled into the chair and, after a split-second of hesitation, he placed a hand on Meliadoul's shoulder. Once more, the old gardener was startled, for though he'd seen the divine knight put on a coy and flirtatious air, she was nonetheless a knight, born and bred. Anyone who touched her like that, without her wishing it so, risked pulling back a stump._

_"Listen, Melia," he began, and the old gardener could swear that the nickname caused a flicker of annoyance to cross Meliadoul's once stony expression. "I can understand what you're going through."_

_Much to the old gardener's surprise, the hitherto silent Meliadoul scoffed at his words and, as she whirled to face him, her hood slid free of her head to expose her long coils of auburn hair. Normally, ever aware that long hair could allow an unscrupulous foe to drag her in close for a killing stroke, she kept hers in a tight bun. But, apparently, most of the hairpins must've been dislodged during her training, and the bun was coming apart...as was her expressionless mask._

_"How can that be?" she more_ spat _than asked. "_ You _still have your father! You have no idea what it's like to have lost your family to that accursed war!"_

_"Oh, yes, I do! The whole reason I joined Drake was to save my father. He'd been abducted by Baert, and all I could do was take his...research and run for the hills. Yes, Drake agreed to help me rescue him, but I had no reason to believe he could pull it off. You think I didn't spend every waking moment hating that I had to run? Asking myself what I could've done differently? You think I wasn't always asking myself 'what if I get to him too late?' Are you telling me you didn't ask yourself why you hadn't been there? Or, that you didn't agonize over what if you'd done this, or what if you'd done that?"_

_That seemed to give Meliadoul pause - not an easy task if Donavan remembered correctly - and she settled back in her chair, looking almost chastened._

_"I'm sorry," she said after a long pause. "I shouldn't have brought that up."_

_"Don't worry, I understand," Mustadio replied, and the old gardener could sense the weight of his words. "You've had a lot on your mind lately and, believe me, I've snapped at some of the others when I was wound up."_

_"It's so...empty here, with everyone gone. During the war, I was able to put it out of my mind because I had the...enemy to hunt down. After that, I had those monster sightings to follow-up on, but then... After that, there was nothing left but to face the truth. My family's gone, the Knights Templar are no more. I'm alone."_

_Once again, Mustadio surprised Donavan by standing, rounding Meliadoul's chair, and seizing her by both shoulders._

_"You're not," he intoned firmly. "There are a lot of people who care about you. There's Drake and Agrias, Beowulf and Reis, Marak and Rafa, Rad, Alicia and Lavian, Raffe, Francis, Abel, Wynefreede, Myrdrede, Emery...heck, there's me too! Some of us are in Lesalia, others are in Lionel. But, after everything we've been through, we still keep in touch and watch out for each other. A lot of people were saddened when you left, and I'll bet they'll be overjoyed to have you back."_

_Meliadoul spent a long moment staring into the fire, as though expecting the answer to some unspoken enigma to emerge from the flames. Then, after what felt like hours, Donavan's jaw dropped when he saw a quirk at one corner of her mouth which might, one day, become a smile._

_"It occurs to me that I've treated you rather shabbily, Mustadio," the divine knight admitted. "I'm sorry. Maybe I should've taken you up on your offer to come to Goug. It might've been-"_

_Whatever it might've been was left unspoken when her stomach suddenly roared with hunger._

_"Melia, when was the last time you'd eaten?" Mustadio asked._

_Meliadoul's brow furrowed, as though she struggled with the question before she said what might've been 'sometime yesterday'._

_"I'll take care of that," the machinist declared, striding toward the kitchen while Meliadoul, showing a flicker of her old self for the first time since her return to the manor, scoffed playfully as she seated herself at the dining table._

_"You mean you actually know how to cook something besides machine oil and gunpowder?" she asked, feigning astonishment that such a thing could be possible._

_Jerking to a halt, but looking more amused than affronted, Mustadio whirled, leveled a finger in her direction and intoned "just watch me work!"_

_Donavan did just that, and it was not a pretty sight._

_By the time Mustadio was done, the kitchen bore an uncanny, and unpleasant, resemblance to a machinist's workshop, with used pans stacked haphazardly and all encrusted with the remnants of Mustadio's machinations. More than a bit of water had wound up on the floor and, bafflingly, some stray bits of (probably not) edible detritus had ended up on the ceiling. And, as for the machinist's presentation of the 'meal'...in Donavan's opinion, the less said, the better._

_Yet, to the stupefaction of both the divine knight and the old gardener, Mustadio had managed to turn out a surprisingly complex meal of roast chicken breast, filleted halibut with crushed bacon, mashed potatoes, a platter of steamed vegetables, and a chilled pitcher of water. No less flabbergasting, when Meliadoul dared to take her first bite, the meal began to disappear rapidly._

_After picking the plates and bowls clean, the divine knight leaned back in her chair and contentedly patted her full belly._

_"And to think," she began in a tone that was very nearly playful, pausing only to swipe a finger through the remnants of the mashed potatoes and lick them up, "I doubted you were good for anything besides leisurely pointing and shooting that little toy of yours."_

_This latest jibe, however, seemed to cut a little close to the bone, as Mustadio, who'd been gathering up the cutlery from the table suddenly dropped it in a cacophony of clattering metal._

_"Oh, really?" he asked, this time sounding very nearly affronted, though Donavan could spy a curious gleam in the machinist's eyes that did not look much akin to anger. "And, I suppose that oversized butter knife of yours is a real weapon?"_

_"Of course. It takes years of skill and dedication to_ learn _how to use the sword," Meliadoul replied as a ghost of a smile finally dawned on her features. "You learning to point and fire one of those peashooters? Probably took you a half hour."_

_Considering that Mustadio had one of those 'peashooters' strapped to his hip, as well as a whole case of others, Donavan suddenly found himself wondering if the machinist might...overreact to this teasing. The old gardener was relieved when, instead, Mustadio broke into a wide smile...but that relief quickly flew at his next words._

_"Well, if it's so easy, let me pull some of these out of the case so you can show me how it's done."_

_"In here?" Meliadoul asked, her incredulity at the idea not entirely feigned. "No, let's take it to the training hall."_

_"Fine by me!"_

_Wringing his hands, Donavan followed at a discreet distance while the two younger people entered the training hall and Mustadio tried, unsuccessfully, to move a pair of training dummies with archery targets nailed to their torsos. Seeming to take this as a small victory, Meliadoul joining him in setting up the two dummies abreast and then withdrawing some twenty paces away. Mustadio then removed one of the guns from the case, along with an assortment of tools and a horn of black powder. He then handed his own gun to Meliadoul, saying it was already loaded, and offered her the first shot. Smirking, Meliadoul brought up the gun, aimed it at the dummy, and pulled the trigger..._

_...only for the gun to let out a peal of thunder, kick up wildly, and send her sprawling to the mat._

_She landed, dazed by both the force and volume of the gun's report, but her vision cleared quickly enough to see Mustadio smirking down at her._

_"Must've been a long half-hour," he quipped._

_The divine knight, scowling, brought up the pistol and pulled the trigger again, but the gun gave only a dry click instead._

_"Those guns can only hold one bullet at a time," Mustadio pointed out. "Complicates things a bit, doesn't it? Here, I'll show you how to load them."_

_Even if Meliadoul might be proven right about guns being easy to use, loading them turned out to be no small matter. Apart from simply getting the bullet into the gun's_ mouth, _or muzzle, it had to be preceded by a measure of gunpowder and wrapped in either paper or cloth, rammed in using a small rod stored in a small cavity beneath the gun's barrel, and the whole thing had to fit tightly. After that, another measure of gunpowder needed to be added to a tiny bowl on its_ side, _called the pan, and then snapped securely shut._

 _"Now, imagine having to do that,_ after every single shot _in the middle of a battle?" Mustadio asked, his tone rife with vindication. "Not exactly the sort of thing that lends itself to the clumsy, or the panicky."_

 _Meliadoul, her knight's pride refusing to let her admit defeat so easily, followed Mustadio's procedure for three of the guns, though another aspect which proved challenging was adding the proper measure of gunpowder. Twice, Mustadio had declared that she'd used too little and, once, that she'd used too much and the gun was as likely to explode as to actually fire. Eventually, however, the machinist pronounced her work as 'adequate' and challenged her to use each gun to take one shot at the target. Her first shot, which made the old gardener's ears ring, sent her sprawling once again. However, Mustadio helped her up and guided her through how to position her body, locking her elbow and planting her feet in order to reduce the, as he dubbed it,_ recoil _of the gun. He also told her that, in combat, it often worked best to turn the shoulder of the shooting arm towards the enemy, thus offering a narrower target in the event of return fire._

_Meliadoul fired again, and this time kept her feet...but the bullet has missed the dummy by a sizable margin._

_After that, Mustadio walked her through a simple_ exercise to _, first, find her dominant eye with which she would spy her target and, second, to use the notch above the muzzle, called the sight, to gauge where the bullet would travel after being fired. He then jokingly added that they were lucky that there was no wind in the training hall, otherwise they might miss their 'half hour deadline'. The divine knight, this time closing her non-dominant eye, fired once more and, to the surprise of all three, the small lead ball punched a neat hole in the outer ring of the target._

_"Well," Meliadoul said, a hint of triumph in her voice, "not bad for ten minute's work."_

_Donavan considered mentioning that the pair had been at it for over an hour, but contradicting a woman who was carrying a weapon that could blow holes through solid wood did not strike him as a particularly bright idea. The old gardener did notice, however, that, although Mustadio appeared surprised, he did not seem perturbed by this turn of events. In fact, what looked like a cunning gleam had entered his eyes._

_"You're surprising me, Melia," he admitted the nickname this time causing Meliadoul to roll her eyes. "How about we make this interesting? We each load three guns and take shots at a target. Whoever scores the most points wins."_

_"Wins what?" the divine knight asked, clearly intrigued._

_"Winner names their reward. You in?"_

_"I hope you enjoyed yourself in the kitchen because I plan on you being my personal chef for the next three weeks."_

_Considering the havoc Mustadio had wrecked in the kitchen in just a few minutes, Donavan found himself contemplating whether it would be a betrayal of the family to hope that his mistress would lose. As it turned out, his fears were unfounded, for Meliadoul managed only two hits to the middle ring and one on the outer, while Mustadio scored three bull's-eyes with seeming ease..._

_...either_ that, _or learning to use his weapon of choice so effectively had also taken a skill and dedication no less than that which Meliadoul had poured into her swordplay._

_Regardless, the divine knight, looking somewhat chastened and more than a bit bedraggled, shook her head in awe. In so doing, she dislodged the last of her hairpins and her auburn tresses cascaded to below her waist in a waterfall of woven umber silk. Blowing out an aggravated breath at her disheveled appearance, not to mention her defeat, she ran her fingers through her hair to disentangle the chocolate mane, not noticing that Mustadio was gawking at her all the while._

_The old gardener, by contrast, noticed everything._

_And, what he saw so far was the single greatest fracas he had ever seen in his many years of service to the_ Tingel _family. That disaster in the kitchen may have taken minutes to create, but it would require hours to clean up. His ears were still ringing from the gunplay and, he suspected, so were those of several generations of_ Tingels _buried in the family tomb on the grounds. And, he didn't even want to think about how he'd get rid of the smell of the burnt gunpowder._

_Yet, he also saw that his mistress was no longer the disconsolate creature who'd sauntered, trancelike, through the manor doors but a few short hours ago. Since the machinist had arrived, she'd been talking, smiling, even laughing. All it had taken to rouse her from her manic grief was a friend...who, perhaps, sought to be more._

_Well, that and some mild property destruction the old gardener groused, but he decided that, if this strange young man could put his mistress's smile back where it belonged, then it was worth it._

_"So, what will your prize be?" Meliadoul asked, almost sounding as though bracing herself for some manner of humiliation._

_"Come with me to the ball," Mustadio blurted out, though his face faulted the moment the words left his lips. "I mean...er... you don't have to be my_ escort, _or anything. But, you do_ have _to be there. Drake and most of his band will be attending and I...they will be thrilled to see you there. Oh! And, you have to be well dressed. Wear your hair down, too. It looks...really great on you."_

_Mustadio continued to ramble on for a bit, doing an abysmal job of trying to sound like something, anything, besides a schoolboy who'd just caught the eye of the prettiest girl on campus. Meliadoul, for her part, looked as though watching this display made for an acceptable consolation prize._

_"Well then, I'd best get ready," she intoned with a smile as she reached into one of her cloak's pockets, but her grin vanished as she drew back only a bit of lint._

_Her expression shifting towards perplexity, and then towards alarm, she desperately began searching her other pockets, but whatever it was she_ sought _prove elusive._

 _"What's wrong?" Mustadio asked_ alarmed, _before something across the room caught his eye._

_Whatever it was, Meliadoul spied it as well and, in a decidedly un-knightly show of panic, tried to reach it first. Mustadio, however, proved the quicker and scooped up what appeared to be a small tube of metal that, despite some rough handling, shone like gold. The machinist, oblivious to Meliadoul's embarrassment at his having seen it, stared at the small tube, wide-eyed._

_"The tynar rouge," he blurted, stunned. "I gave this to you back in Dorter."_

_Donavan felt rather stunned himself. Though he'd never had either a lady to present with such a gift nor the funds to buy it, he was well aware that such a trifle was no paltry gift. Quite the opposite, in fact; it reportedly cost a small fortune._

_ _

_If Mustadio had, indeed, given it to Meliadoul, then he clearly considered her to be more than just another comrade-in-arms._

_For that matter, Meliadoul having kept it also suggested that the feeling might be mutual._

_"I'm glad you kept it," Mustadio gushed, his boyish grin spreading from ear to ear as he gently placed the tube in Meliadoul's hand._

_And, indeed, the machinist looked quite touched at such a gesture. His grin proving as uncontrollable as a faulty gun, he hastily, and incoherently, asked if the divine knight would wear the rouge when she went to the ball. It caught the old gardener's attention that, not only was the machinist not dubbing that as yet another of his spoils of victory, but he'd admitted that doing so would mean a lot to him._

_The divine knight, one eyebrow arching, told him that they'd decide the matter with a rematch. Mustadio promptly reloaded the six guns and, just as he prepared to take his first shot, Donavan spotted a distinctly cunning gleam in Meliadoul's emerald orbs._

_"So, I'm sure I'll find a gown easily enough," she remarked as Mustadio pulled back the tiny lever on his gun, "cocking the hammer" he'd called it. "So, what are you going to wear?"_

_Abruptly, the machinist's face faulted and, as he pulled the trigger, his suddenly slack shooting arm nearly snapped back against itself as the gun belched its fire and thunder. The old gardener didn't even have to look to see that the bullet had been well and truly off the mark._

_"Okay, then," Mustadio intoned, trying to sound as though he wasn't thoroughly flummoxed by the question. "I guess I'll be doing some shopping once I sell these off. They'll still fetch a good price, even slightly used. So, shall we see if you can hit a bulls-eye this time?"_

_"You're on!" Meliadoul affirmed, taking aim and pulling the trigger._

_And so the pair resumed their contest and, relieved though he was that his mistress seemed to be on the mend, Donavan found himself hoping that the local apothecary was well stocking up on migraine remedies._

_Between the noise and Mustadio's other antics, putting his mistress' smile back in place seemed to carry a price._

* * *

"Ah, to be young and...er...," Donavan began, suddenly at a loss for words for the first time in Izlude's memory. "Young and...trigger-happy?"

Izlude had almost missed the hitherto unheard-of lapse in Donavan's otherwise unflappable manner, for he had laughed himself nearly breathless. Yet, beneath the hilarity was a profound sense of relief. He had been deeply worried for Meliadoul, after seeing her both during his vision and skirmish in Bervenia, and many a time he had pined for some way to alert her as to his true identity. However, though he did not envy Donavan the task of cleaning up the after effects of Mustadio and Meliadoul's...

 _Date, I suppose?_ he wondered, somehow finding the answer to his liking.

Regardless, he knew very little about Mustadio, as he had long since discovered the Templars' information on him to be dubious at best. But, the vivid description of how the machinist had fumblingly worked to ingratiate himself to the divine knight, and how he had gotten through to Meliadoul in her time of grief, had impressed the knight blade.

And, though Izlude knew little of womanly trifles, he shared Donavan's opinion that tynar rouge wasn't the sort of gift one gives to someone who's 'just a friend'.

Still, though Izlude had no idea when, or even if, he might be able to reveal himself to Meliadoul and to let her know that someone else who cared for her still roamed the land of the living, it gladdened his heart to know that she was far from alone. Though he'd never met the man, he felt deeply grateful to Mustadio and hoped that he might have the chance to tell him that personally.

Maybe even as Izlude Tingel rather than Damien Mitchell.

"That is quite a story, sir!" the knight blade rasped out. "I can't even remember the last time I've laughed so hard."

"It's been quite a while for me too, young man," the old gardener agreed, a smile pulling tight his copious laugh lines. "Master Mustadio been back a few times since then, to visit Dame Meliadoul and to relay news of Drake and the rest of their band. He _is_ an odd duck, and I could stand a bit less noise when he visits, but I am glad that that he came nonetheless. Oh, but I've prattled on too long already! If you wish, you could leave your message with me and I'll relay to her."

"I thank you for your kindness, sir, but this message is confidential," Izlude deflected. "However, I can return later. You did say she never mentioned when she'd return, but if you would be so kind as to tell me when Lady Tingel might be back, that would be helpful."

"Unfortunately, I am not sure of that myself, but I can tell her you came by. Why don't you return tomorrow? I think she will return by then."

"I will, thank you. And, have a good day, sir."

"You too, young man," the old gardener said with a smile before he went back to tending the flowers. "Oh, before you go, I have one question: is it true that Romandans eat shark?"

 _What is this, a running gag?_ Izlude asked himself, and the stone, as he hurriedly gave his, by now, well-rehearsed answer.

As Izlude prepared to leave, he could not help but turn around to take what, he suspected, would be his last look at his old house. It may have been his childhood home, and recalling the memories of those days tugged at his heartstrings, but he knew he could never again set foot in it, never again wander the stately halls which brimmed over with memories of his parents and sister. After all, in a sense, he was no longer Izlude Tingel. As far as the world knew, that man had perished in the horrible massacre at Riovanes Castle, just as Alma Beoulve was presumed to have perished as well.

As Izlude gazed up at the second story of his old house, he spotted the window to his parents' bedroom and his thoughts wended their way back to his childhood and early teens. He remembered his mother, Meredith Tingel, and how she'd fallen ill and died after nearly twenty years of marriage to his father. After her passing, Vormav, who treasured her above all else aside from the children she had blessed him with, was devastated. He would linger at her tomb, seemingly for days at a time, took only the scantest of meals, and rarely slept. After over a week spent in a veritable trance of grief, the previous high confessor took pity on him and offered him the Leo holy stone. Looking back, Izlude found himself once more wondering whether the high confessor's plot was separate from that of the Lucavi. While Marcel had been far too old and feeble to be an enticing target for demonic possession, it seemed doubtful he would knowingly give away such a stone as a token of solidarity to a grieving friend. Still, with Marcel, his coconspirators, and the known Lucavi hosts all dead, the knight blade supposed he had no way of knowing for certain. In any case, though he did not think much of it at the time, Izlude found himself looking back on those dark days and realizing that his father's erratic behavior after he had obtained the holy stone finally made sense.

After Vormav had received the Leo stone, he was sent on a brief mission by the high confessor. When he had returned, both Izlude and Meliadoul, though they did not voice their thoughts to anyone, not even each other, had noticed a change in their father. Once a patient and understanding man, even if a bit stern, Vormav became quicker to anger and less tolerant of even the most paltry short-comings from anyone. Later, this escalated into unpredictable and volatile episodes, with Vormav, who was no longer Vormav, often losing his temper at even the slightest provocation. Izlude could not help shuddering as he remembered how, just weeks after their mother's death, he'd witnessed his father strike a servant for the first time, a servant boy named Tristan who'd accidently spilled hot tea on the table while serving breakfast one morning. Izlude remembered the livid, almost feral look on his father's face, which he'd desperately tried to brush off as some product of his youthful imagination. That vain hope was quashed when Vormav struck the boy hard enough to knock him into a coma before getting up from the table and storming out of the dining room with nary a backward glance. The incident shocked Izlude and Meliadoul to the core and his sister, ever so compassionate, took it upon herself to carry Tristan to his room and tend to him until he regained consciousness three days later.

Apparently, their other servants got word of the incident and were shocked as well, for they had never seen their employer act in such a violent manner over such a petty mistake. Both siblings tried to reassure their staff that their father was still in mourning over their mother's death, that it was an incident which, though horrifying, would not happen again.

Oh, how wrong they were.

In the weeks and months that followed, Vormav's ever escalating violence saw one servant after another left bruised and bleeding for making even the most paltry mistake or causing him even the vaguest hint of displeasure. From breaking the ribs of the stable boy for failing to groom his chocobo perfectly, to throwing hot tea into the face of the chef for slightly over-salting his dinner, to pushing a maid down the stairs for failing to prepare his clothes in a timely manner, and so forth, life in the Tingel household, once nigh-idyllic, soon became an endless succession of nightmarish scenes which perverted that former joy.

And the worst part was that Vormav would later calm down and apologize, claiming that he had no recollection what he did or what had driven him over the edge, but those words offered little assurance that life in the manor would improve and soon, everyone in the Tingel household, including Izlude and Meliadoul themselves, lived in fear of their father. Every time he saw Vormav assault a servant, Izlude found himself fearing that he or Meliadoul could be next if they displeased their father in any way. The guards, whose only task was to watch the house, took to avoiding their employer by patrolling only the distant fringes of the expansive grounds and Izlude and Meliadoul, in a perverse irony, found themselves tending to their servants' injuries whenever Vormav's unpredictable temper boiled over. Out of fondness for the Tingel children, the staff tolerated Vormav's behavior for a time, but it finally reached a point where they could no longer live with him. Several of their servants handed in their resignations before leaving while others didn't even bother, vanishing in the middle of the night. Izlude and Meliadoul knew this because they would find their runaway servants' rooms empty of all their possessions the following morning.

As their staff grew smaller and smaller, the Tingel children grew more fearful that their father might turn his wrath on them once there were no more servants or guards he could vent his anger on. By the sixth month after Meredith's death, all their servants had left them, even the guards who'd wised up after seeing the exodus...not to mention the condition of those who'd left. The only exception was Donavan, the gardener, who worked mostly outside and rarely set foot inside the Tingel home, which gave him far less a chance of getting into a confrontation with Vormav. And, unlike the servants and guards, Donavan did not live with the family but had his own apartment in downtown Lesalia that he would return to after his shift was over. Of course, he knew what was going on inside the Tingel home, but tried not to think about it too much since he needed the pay from his employer. As for Izlude and Meliadoul, both of them found themselves having to tend to their own needs as well as the maintenance of their home once they were alone. In order to avoid their father, the siblings tried to be out of the house as much as possible, as well as be in bed by the time Vormav returned home from his duties. Fortunately for them, their father finally made the decision to send both of them off to Murond for training to become Templars as soon as Izlude, as well as Justin, had turned fourteen, the minimum age of admittance.

He'd left the dismal manor the moment he was fourteen and, until this very day, had never looked back.

In the four years that he and Meliadoul trained to be Templars, they saw their father sparingly. However, whenever they did, they were surprised and relieved to see that he seemed to have returned to his normal self and, for a time, they'd believed that the violent phase he went through after their mother's death had passed. At least, Izlude believed it until that fateful day he saw his father transform into a Lucavi before his very eyes. Of course, by then, it was too late. Vormav Tingel was no more, as Hashmalum had evicted the man's very soul and completely taken over his body.

Izlude felt his eyes misting at the painful memory. Not when he was killed by the Lucavi, but when he finally realized that the man standing before him was no longer his father but a demon with his face and form. And the worst part was that, deep down, he _knew_ that something had not been right with Vormav since the day he'd returned from his journey after obtaining the holy stone, even if he wasn't sure what it was. He _knew_ that something was not right with Vormav when his father ordered him to raid Orbonne Monastery, and yet Izlude had blindly obeyed him when he _knew_ deep down that what they were doing was wrong. And, even though Meliadoul also loyally obeyed their father almost to the very end, Izlude believed that deep down, she too had her doubts. Unquestionably, the smothered horrors of these revelations, that she had unwittingly turned a blind eye to their father's subversion by the Lucavi, and the belief that such caused Izlude's 'death', had done much to explain Meliadoul's condition when she'd first returned to the manor. And, undoubtedly, knowing she could not share such a seemingly mad tale, even with the loyal Donavan, had made it even worse.

But, even though he, or they, had known, what could have been done?

The knight blade shook his head as he finally turned and left the Tingel manor. He knew that there was no point in thinking about those things now. What mattered was the present and, right now, he needed to get a room and hire a tailor to make him new clothes for the coming ball. The new Duchess of Lionel was expected to make her first appearance very soon. And, even if he had no way to alert them to his presence, he also hoped to clap eyes on Meliadoul and Mustadio as well. If nothing else, he wanted to know if his sister truly was in good hands.

Shaking himself back to attention, the knight blade resumed his journey. As children, Izlude and Meliadoul often accompanied their mother when she went to downtown Lesalia to shop, often for food and other essentials for their home. Meredith Tingel was not the sort of mistress to send her servants out on errands for every little trifle she so desired. A vibrant and energetic woman, she had loved being out and about the city with her children, especially on days when it was bright and sunny. Like Dorter, Lesalia had a large shopping district downtown where almost anything could be found. However, unlike the city of merchants, the prices of Ivalice's capital was significantly higher. But, with his share of the Moonsharks' loot, money was no longer an issue for the knight blade. If he wished, Izlude could afford to rent the finest rooms and dine at the most expensive restaurants, as well as commission a small army of the best tailors in all of Lesalia to design his clothing.

Those riches were not easily attained, but he would gladly hack his way through another army of phantoms in order to once again stand at his beloved's side.

As he passed by some restaurants in downtown Lesalia, the aroma of freshly baked bread and cooked meats reached Izlude's nostrils and he found his stomach growling. In his eagerness to resume his journey, he realized that he had not eaten since the night before. With his stomach refusing to be ignored any longer, he stopped by a café for some lunch, planning to eat and leave quickly before his appearance attracted too much curiosity.

After settling down at a table at the far end of the café and placing his order, Izlude was surprised when a man approached.

"Excuse me, sir," the man spoke up, his voice betraying his many years and hinting that he'd had a string of tiring days. "But, would you mind if I joined you? There seems to be no more empty tables left from what I could see."

"Of course," Izlude replied, though desperately hoping that this fellow did not even mention sharks. "Please make yourself comfortable."

"Thank you, kind sir."

After the man had seated, Izlude's eyes nearly popped out of his skull as recognized him as Claudio Chiapparini, the elderly artist who sold him Alma's portrait back in Dorter.

"Claudio! I didn't realize it was you! What brings you to Lesalia?"

"Why, Sir Damien! I didn't realize it was you either. How have you been? As for me, I'd been commissioned by King Delita to paint a portrait of his wife, the newly crowned Queen Ovelia."

"Really? From what I've seen, they chose the right man for the job. Please tell me, is the portrait completed?"

"Yes, just this morning. And, honestly, I feel I must've aged a year on the journey here and two more during the actual work. When I received the king's summons back in Dorter, I was hesitant to come. But, I knew it would not be wise to refuse, so I steeled my nerve and came anyway. When I arrived at the castle, I was fearful that I would be put through the same experience painting Queen Ovelia as I did her predecessor. I feared that if I painted her looking anything less than perfect, the new queen would have had me executed. You can imagine my surprise and relief when it became apparent that Queen Ovelia is nothing like Queen Ruvelia. She seemed much more patient and understanding, and best of all, she was more willing to smile for her portrait so I didn't have to use my imagination and hope for the best. I dare say it went as smoothly as my painting of Duchess Seymour, and that the royal couple shared your glowing appraisal of my work."

"I see…" Izlude said, smiling and lifting his glass in salute to the artist. "Well, that's a relief. I'll be looking forward to seeing Queen Ovelia's portrait when it goes up in the castle."

"Well, thank you! I appreciate your approval of my work. I take it you are happy with Duchess Seymour's portrait."

"Oh, I was thrilled!" Izlude answered, once more feeling anticipation well up within him. "In fact, I've come here to see the Duchess herself. Your painting captivated me so much that I just had to come see if she's just as beautiful in person."

"Trust me, Sir Damien, as proud as I am of my craft, I still doubt my portrait of the duchess could truly do her beauty justice."

"Well, I guess I'll have to wait and see, won't I?"

At that, the old artist laughed merrily. "Indeed you will! Well, good luck to you, Sir Damien," he said after he drained his coffee mug and prepared to leave. "I'm grateful that our paths have crossed again. Perhaps we will meet once more in the future?"

"Of course, I would love that," Izlude said with a smile. "Good luck to you too, Mr. Chiapparini."

* * *

After he had finished his lunch and left the café, the knight blade made his way to the area of the shopping district which catered to those of more extravagant tastes. Upon arriving there, he probed his memory and, soon enough, recalled the location of what the Tingel family had regarded as the finest tailor in Lesalia. After all, he would be needing the finest clothes he could get before presenting himself to his beloved.

When Izlude arrived, his short-lived relief at finding the shop still in business turned into perplexity when he found the shop to be a bit quieter than he'd expected.

"Welcome, young man, how can I help you?"

Izlude turned to find himself face to face with a balding middle-aged man who, befitting his profession, had dexterous hands and was dressed in a manner which even a duke could be impressed with. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't see you. Are you the chief tailor here?"

"That I am," the balding man confirmed. "My name is Pat Mowett, and this is my shop. What can I do for you, sir?"

"I am in need of new clothing, actually. I plan to attend the ball to vie for the hand of the Duchess of Lionel."

"Ahh…well, the first night of the ball is this very evening. So, I must beg your forgiveness, but I fear it will not be possible to have your clothes ready by then. If I start now, however, they'll be ready tomorrow. The ball will be for at least three nights, or so I've heard, and, once I'm done with you, you'll put the 'fashionable' in fashionably late. I hope that will suffice?"

The knight blade was a bit disappointed to hear that, for he believed that the sooner he made himself known to Alma, the greater his chances of winning her hand. What's more, he had hoped he might also spy Meliadoul and see whether she was getting along whith Mustadio as well as Donavan seemed to believe. Still, he also knew that such fine clothes as he was likely to need took time to make, even for the best tailors and seamstresses. Grating though it might be so close to the end of his journey, he had no recourse save patience.

"I understand, sir," he admitted, much though he disliked it. "Would you be willing to start now? I know I'm asking on short-notice, but money is not an issue for me at all." Izlude lost no time proving his word as he reached into his pocket and handed the tailor a bill worth one-hundred gil. "This is just a down-payment, if you can have my new clothes ready by tomorrow."

At the sight of the high denomination bill, the tailor's eyes brightened. "Of course, sir! I can take your measurements right now and get started shortly. I believe I can have them ready by tomorrow, or the morning after at the latest. Besides, a strapping young man like yourself? I believe that one night is all you really need to catch the eye of the duchess!"

Izlude breathed a sigh of relief. During his brief tutelage in Ivalice's new economy, Aldrich had voice the slogan that 'money talks'. Apparently, it spoke most persuasively. "Thank you sir. Please, I'd like to get started as soon as possible."

* * *

"So, tell me, good sir, who are you and from where do you hail? Judging from your hair and eyes, I sense you are not from around here," Pat said as he skillfully measured the length of Izlude's arms and the width of his chest for his new tabard, as well as the length of his back and legs for his new cape. Upon Izlude's request, Pat would later send the knight blade's measurements to the smith so that ceremonial armor could be crafted as well to complete his ensemble.

Though the Order of the Wyverns had surely been folded into the new Order of the Chimera by now, Izlude found himself thinking that wearing the crest which the real Damien Mitchell had worn in life might be a fitting gesture to man who he alone mourned.

Luckily, Izlude, who had been expecting this line of question and quickly fell back into his adopted persona, knew exactly how to answer, having spent the last few weeks honing his new identity as Damien Mitchell.

"My name is Damien Mitchell. Though I was born in Ivalice, Yardow to be exact, I am actually of Romandan descent."

"Interesting, have you ever been there?"

"Actually, no, I haven't. My grandparents immigrated to Ivalice during the 50 Years War, shortly before Romanda withdrew from the conflict and before Ivalice closed her borders. Though, with that war having ended, I may get a chance to visit when the borders open again for travel and trade. I'd heard some fascinating tales about the 'old country' when I was a boy, and some still pique my curiosity. But, right now, my interest is in the Duchess of Lionel."

"Trust me, son, you aren't the only one. Why, did you know that I've been making clothes for several young men such as yourself over the last few weeks, all seeking the hand of the duchess? That's actually why my shop was so quiet when you arrived, they'd all come and gone by then."

"Honestly, it doesn't surprise me. I knew there would be competition as soon as the word got out that she and her brother would be introduced to the Ivalice public by their cousin."

"Ahh, yes, King Delita seems eager to see his cousin married off quickly. Why, I have no idea. After all, she's still a young lady and has plenty of time to find the right man. I admit, I'm perplexed as to why King Delita and Lord Seymour should be in such a hurry."

Upon hearing that, Izlude had to admit that he was puzzled as well. He knew that Delita would introduce Ramza and Alma to the public as his cousins, and that it was a given for eligible bachelors to be in attendance. But, why would he, or Ramza, be in such a hurry to marry Alma off? He was about pose the question to the tailor but decided to hold his tongue, since it was doubtful the man knew any more than he did.

After his measurements were taken, Izlude paid Pat for his clothing, though politely reiterating that they must be done no later than two days from now. The tailor, in turn, reaffirmed his promise. At that point, Izlude made a point of leaving the shop before the dreaded question regarding Romandans and sharks could arise once more.

Now that his clothing and accessories had been taken care of, the next step in Izlude's mission was getting a room and rest for the night. If the ball at Lesalia Castle, and the lady of the hour, were as sought after as Pat had claimed, Izlude knew he would need to get what rest he could before he waded into that particular arena to vie for the hand of his beloved.

Now that he no longer had to worry about money, the knight blade figured that it wouldn't hurt for him to be a tad spendthrift for once. So, he sought out the most comfortable (and expensive) inn in Lesalia. He'd suspected he would only spend the next one to two nights at that especially decadent establishment, and one glance at their prices left no doubt in his mind on that count. Still, the privacy would give him a respite from the sensation of every pair of eyes in the city pulsing wide and alighting upon him, as well allowing him to better plan his next move without attracting unwanted attention. As he mulled over the ball, and what might happen there and afterward, Izlude took advantage of the room service and ordered a meal to be delivered to his room.

As he ate his meal and, later, laid in bed that night admiring Alma's portrait yet again, he once more felt the excitement welling up in him at the knowledge that the woman he loved was finally within his reach. This also served to remind the knight blade that, once he succeeded in winning Alma's hand, still more questions would boil forth. Izlude was pointedly reminded on one of these questions when he idly began studying one of the bills of new paper currency that he had been using since he came to town. Looking over the bills in his purse, Izlude once more saw that the larger bills had portraits of former Kings of Ivalice while the one gil bill, the most common one, had the portrait of the new king, Delita Hyral the First. While coin gil was still widely used, Izlude had the feeling that over time, paper currency would gain more popularity and, though he had no real way of knowing if Aldrich was right in saying that gil in the form of minted golden coins would remain in use to ensure that the new currency had value instead being 'just paper', Izlude suspected the days of belt pouches bulging with coin were numbered. Like as not, any gold minted in the future would ultimately be consigned to vaults and treasuries to, as Aldrich had oh-so-floridly put it, 'act as the unseen pillar which keeps the new economy from caving in on itself', while paper money would be used all over Ivalice due to its convenience, especially for merchants and travelers.

These musings also reminded Izlude, however, of one thing that he'd repeatedly shoved aside in favor of his ongoing quest for Alma's hand. He was now a very rich man and, aside from marrying Alma and giving her a happy life as he had promised, he had no idea where his future lay beyond that. When he'd first proposed to Alma, he'd expected he would continue acting as second-in-command of the Knights Templar, maybe even prove himself a worthy successor to his father and gain command of the order one day. But, so much had changed since then. The order was no more. His father's shell, subverted by demonkind, had been destroyed and, hopefully, his father's tortured spirit could now rest in peace. He and Alma had had to leave behind their names, and even their faces, and seek out new homes. And, though Izlude's newfound wealth would open many a door, he had no idea which door to choose or what might lay beyond.

Now that he was a major shareholder in the Ivalician Mining and Metalworking Consortium, might he pursue his investment and help the business to prosper and to provide valuable jobs and services to the still mending kingdom? Or, perhaps Damien Mitchell might discover himself as having a philanthropic side and, as Delita had done with Johannes's printing press, donate towards projects that might aid the long downtrodden of Ivalice to better their lives? Maybe he would take up the blade again as a knight of the newly formed Order of the Chimera. He simply did not know, for the possibilities were many and seemed daunting in the vastness of their potential.

And, even that did not encompass a question still greater. If the stone did not undo its alterations to his face and voice, or allow Alma to see past them and behold the features of the man she'd loved and thought dead, then how was he to alert her as to his true identity? For that matter, how could he do likewise with Meliadoul? He dearly wanted to know if she was in good hands with Mustadio, but she might not take 'Damien Mitchell's' curiosity as well as Donavan had. And, on top of all that, he shared Pat's perplexity over why Delita and Drake - or, rather, Ramza - were so anxious to marry Alma off so quickly.

Knowing he'd go mad contemplating all this at once, Izlude forcibly shook himself from his reverie and reaffirmed that, whenever and however these questions were answered, he still had the present to consider.

After all, if he failed at the ball, what would any of those questions matter?

Even after vanquishing the phantoms of Gollund and amassing a vast fortune, Izlude felt that his greatest challenge was yet to come:

Winning the heart and hand of Catherine Seymour, the new Duchess of Lionel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Ok so now Izlude finally arrives in Lesalia to seek out Alma! Once again, I want to thank Falchion1984 for his help. The Mustadio and Meliadoul scene was entirely his idea so please, please let us know what you think of it!


	17. Interlude 2: Broken Glass and Distorted Reflections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Co-Author's Note: Falchion1984 here. I would like to take this opportunity to thank a recent friend on DeviantArt, Bluefelt, for providing both encouragement and advice when a lengthy ringer at work and in my writing had me fearing this that chapter was sub par. If you're reading this Bluefelt, Elly3981 and I thank you for your help and we hope you enjoy this little piece.

Ivalice had long been a harsh land, one where hope too often proved a fickle mistress and where diplomacy was most frequently decided upon the tip of a blade. From time beyond memory, those of high or even royal birth waged conflicts, subtle and open, as they jockeyed for position in the kingdom's convoluted society. At times, dukes vying for greater wealth or influence would solicit the help of covert agents to infiltrate one another's affairs, sometimes by working from the shadows and other times by insinuating themselves into the very lives of those they were hired to ruin, seeking some dire secret to drag into the daylight.

Other times, a king would decide that one or more of the nobles beneath him was a threat. At times, this was because those who'd earned the king's ire raised too many objections to this decree or because too many knights and other vassals had begun to show signs that their loyalties were shifting and, on rare occasion, actual proof was unearthed that one of the many thorns in the king's side was poised to become lethal. Regardless, the wrath of kings was to be feared, and not just by the object of their ire.

During the last half century of war, there had been no shortage of opportunities to eliminate a potential rival for the throne. At times, an overconfident monarch might publically declare such a noble to be a traitor and their lands and wealth forfeit, which had the predictable consequence of Ivalice's sizable list of enemies growing a bit longer as the noble in question, guilty or not, would never suffer destitution, death, and posthumous ignominy without a fight.

A king of a more devious persuasion, however, would pour over the ever shifting ebb and flow of the decades long war, seeking out the most suicidal engagement he could find. And, upon discovering it, he would command the noble in question to take command of a confrontation whose end was all but preordained. Thus, the noble in question would either tacitly commit treason by refusing or meet his end waging a battle which had been hopeless from the outset. Then, the slain noble would serve his king from beyond the grave as a martyr by which to rally new support so that his Ordalian slayers might not go unpunished.

Yet, though kings, queens, knights, bishops, and rooks warred upon the gray chessboard of Ivalice, it was the pawns who took the brunt of each and every assault.

When a king mobilized his army to crush a would-be usurper, any and all who served the maligned noble were branded as guilty of treason by association. Whether soldiers and guardsmen who rallied to their lord's defense, regardless of their complicity or even understanding of the alleged treason, or farmers who tilled the earth under the lord's protection, each and all were invisibly branded by the king's wrath, and that brand demanded bloodshed.

And, even those who were not killed outright fared little better than those who'd lost their lives, as many either died in dungeons from hunger or disease while others were publically hung before jeering mobs. Others still, be they women, children, or elders, either found themselves destitute when their homes were looted and burned, or they were taken as plunder, to wait upon those who'd upended their lives.

For those nobles thus branded, and whose deaths on the battlefield had been arranged amidst the long shadows that gathered in the throne of Lesalia, the pawns fared little better as they shared the disparaged lord's fate. After decades of war, and countless battles where far more men and women-at-arms returned on their shields than with them, a deep haze had shrouded the land, one of equal parts frenetic desperation in the face of an implacable enemy and the grim resignation that not one day would go by that didn't end in blood and tears being shed.

Whether during Ivalice's advance into Ordalia, or when the tides of war had turned and Limberry had changed hands, eagerness for final victory or desperation to stave off total defeat alike had allowed that haze to thicken, by measures small and great, until it overshadowed nearly all else. Whether it was the ever shrinking yields of the harvests and how the prices for staple foods crept ever upwards, or how conscripts populating the barracks grew steadily younger and their training briefer, or how both the letters of condolence written to the families of the fallen and the debts owed to third parties financing the war piled ever higher, each and all was largely lost amidst the haze created by the sight of marching hosts and flashing swords, and the grim knowledge that staving them off would mean the loss of countless lives that could have been.

Some, however, had managed to spy sordid opportunities amidst the gloom.

Amongst such constant and chaotic attrition, one command being wiped out was only to be expected. And, if the lord leading that command just _happened_ to be a perceived rival to the king, so much the better.

In those engagements which took place on Ordalian soil, such oblique assassinations could easily happen unassisted. After all, few Ivalicians had had the luxury of conducting cartography on Ordalia since the war started, and those maps which predated the hostilities were often found to be woefully out of date. And, even those armies and commanders who proved the stronger when faced with a blind march through and behind enemy lines still had the enemy themselves to contend with. Though Ordalia had been bled of warriors just as surely as Ivalice, even the greenest recruit fought fiercely when their foes drew so near to hearth and home.

Even when Ordalia could not do the king's dirty work for him, there were no shortage of alternatives. As there was never any lack of forays against Ordalia, ill-fated or otherwise, and since Ivalice's ever deteriorating economy meant that resources to support these advances were distinctly finite, it was a simple matter to decide that supplies should be redirected to a command which had a greater chance of success while another was doomed and further support would be futile. No less potent a tool was the erratic and unreliable intelligence that reached Ivalice from behind enemy lines. Ordalia was a strange land, inhabited by strange people who spoke in strange tongues. And, if a troublesome lord leading a sally against Ordalia met with a tragic end, such was easily blamed on a "mistranslation".

For those who served under a lord thus condemned to die on the battlefield, realization of the truth did not always occur. Some fought and bled to the very end, never realizing that their death warrants had been signed by the very crown they had sworn to defend. Others died of starvation, wondering what had waylaid their overdue supplies and fearful what such might portend back home. And some, who at least suspected the truth, either grimly accepted that the crown was far beyond the reach of their sword arm and chose to simply take as many Ordalians with them as they could, while others chose to desert, keeping their lives but also knowing that both their honor and any chance of returning home were forfeit.

Thus, with a calculating malice towards the perceived enemy and a cold indifference to the "expendables" who would be dragged to the grave along with the object of the king's ire, a troublesome lord was eliminated and the wrathful monarch was secure on his throne for a heartbeat or so longer.

Yet, before the dust had even settled from such violence, portents of bloodshed yet to come would arise once more, as a king never lacks for foes.

As it turned out, neither did the warring dukes who'd fought over the vacant throne of Ivalice.

With the kingdom already broken and spent from decades of war with Ordalia, the feud which arose following the sickly King Omdolia's death found a far more fertile field upon which to sow and reap a harvest of carnage and misery. The disdain for the crown and the nobility seemed to wax with each passing day, sparking such rebellions as the infamous Corpse Brigade and Order of the Ebon Eye in many corners of the warring dukes' domains.

And, with Ivalice's economy continuing its slide into ruin, the flames of discontent found ready fuel as work and food grew ever scarcer. Both dukes, each utterly ensnared by their mutual delusions of their own right to act as regent of the throne, would greet these crises, and the anger that came with them, with harsh words at best and the tip of a blade at worst.

More often than not, however, the flames of war delivered pains far more searing than the slash of a simple sword.

Unceasing rains in western Ivalice and relentless drought in eastern Ivalice had ravaged crops from one corner of the realm to another, forcing hundreds of thousands from their homes in a desperate gamble to escape the long arm of starvation and, just possibly, rebuild their lives. Most had to resort to crossing the battle lines in order to accomplish this, where getting caught could mean being turned back or hung, while others were smuggled out by villains who treated the desperate droves as little more than cargo and had no thought save how much coin could be bled from the castaways.

Regardless, the destitute and the dead piled up alongside the chessboard that was Ivalice while the dukes, indifferent to the cost, warred on, each seeking to claim the crown and to write their place in the annals of history using their rivals' blood as the ink.

And not just that of the opposing duke either.

Both the warring dukes were besieged not only by their rivals for the throne, but also from within their own domains as well. The Corpse Brigade, as it turned out, was but the first of many armed rebellions which had sparked amidst the dry tinder of Ivalice's misfortunes, and it was a blaze neither duke could spare the manpower to beat out. What's more, it was not uncommon for embattled kings and warring dukes alike to have enemies much closer at hand...

...even in their inner circles.

Not all those who were powerful enough to present a credible threat found a monarch's dagger in their back, however. Indeed, quite a few were too dangerous for monarch or duke to turn into an enemy, even when it was clear that the favor of too many knights and vassals were shifting away from their liege lord. Most famous amongst these were Lord Balbanes Beoulve and Count Cidolfas Orlandu, better known as "Thunder God Cid", the White and Black Lions whose claws repeatedly rent to pieces seemingly invincible Ordalian armies.

Other such names included the would-be successor to the Beoulve legacy, Zalbag Beoulve, the pious but fearsome Cardinal Alphons Draclau, and Marquis Mesdoram Elmdor, better known as "the Silver Prince" to his friends and "the Silver Demon" to his foes. Each and all were valiant commanders who led from the front, who fought shoulder to shoulder with their troops, and who, much like the legendary King Denamda IV, bled as their men bled while lesser commanders kept their distance from the battle and were the first to run when fortune turned against them.

These commanders who were men of greatness, Balbanes and Orlandu in particular, were the sorts of commanders that could rally the troops to surge back from the brink of defeat, could make an enemy on the brink of victory quail and fall back, and, more to the point, that many would prefer to bow to than their liege lord.

However, that same adoration and loyalty made it impossible to eliminate these imposing threats to the king's continued reign. Whereas a local lord could be invisibly branded by the king's wrath and crushed overnight through force of arms, attempting to do likewise to one like Balbanes or Orlandu would turn Ivalice against herself while Ordalia was free to stab her in deep in the back. And, if such a commander was to be lost in battle, even without a wrathful king "arranging" it, the loss of morale amongst the troops might very well cost Ivalice the war. And, thus, the necessities of war and the likelihood that such an act might cause a king to lose his kingdom kept such commanders safe from the monarch's dagger finding purchase in their backs.

A wildly different, but no less dangerous, specimen was Duke Garreth Barrington. An obese toad of many perversities, he was neither counted as a great commander nor was he blessed with a phalanx of loyal friends.

What he did have, however, was a keen and devious mind.

Knowledgeable in many aspects of the machinists' craft, and quick to learn the secrets of new technological terrors, he was the evil genius behind the capture and reverse engineering of Romanda's infamous guns after their invasion across the Larner Channel.

Though a difficult and costly process, made all the more so by the disbelief and panic that had swept through Ivalice after the great King Denamda was finally felled by disease on the Romandan front, it had been Barrington who had struck upon the notion of creating a much, _much_ larger version of the Romandan guns, which he dubbed "cannons". With this new innovation, and his construction of Fort Zeakden to act as both an elevated position that allowed for firing at tremendous range and a depot for ammunition and gunpowder, Barrington had thoroughly turned the tables on the Romandans who, just barely able to fight in a land where their longtime ally of winter was too often absent, were promptly routed.

And, as if that wasn't enough, Barrington also made a point of seeking out and grooming promising youths to act as his personal assassins. Some were trained to be ambidextrous, and could deflect a sword with a blade in one hand and then impale their foe with a blade in their other hand. Others had a nigh-flawless aim and could hurl tiny bladed stars, daggers, and even larger weapons at their foes with jaw dropping accuracy and lethal effect. There were even rumors of a pair of dark-skinned siblings in his employ who could twist the very weave of nature and bombard their foes with bursts of thunder and tongues of flame, using powers hitherto unknown even in Ivalice's rich history of spellcraft. And thus, the unloved but feared Duke Barrington was kept quite safe from the monarch's wrath by his thundering cannons that could rain steel upon a castle and his assassins who made no more noise than the shadow of death before they severed even well guarded heads from their shoulders.

But, the monarch had doubtless considered taking the chance nonetheless.

There had also been those who'd condemned such casual brutality against the people by those who wore the crown, or even the trappings of highborn underlings who craved to rule, alleging that a ruler who is more dangerous to his subjects than their eternal foes of Ordalia lacked the virtue and wisdom to occupy the throne. Some of these detractors were also too powerful, and too badly needed to stem any unwanted shifts in the tides of war, to be disposed of, either directly or "accidentally". And so, their unflattering assertions were tolerated so long as their swords were pointed at Ordalia rather than at the ever embattled monarch. The most famous such advocates for those of low birth were the famed Lions of Ivalice, Lord Balbanes and Count Orlandu...

Yet, it seemed both had been surpassed by the newly crowned peasant king, Delita Hyral the First.

Though Ivalicians from both the White and Black Lion factions knew of the lowborn young man, and all respected his abilities and were awed by his story, not many expected their lot in life to improve under his rule. Some, especially those who'd fought and bled in the service of Duke Larg's ill-fated bid for the throne, feared the new king would have only retribution for his fallen foes. Others, though well aware that a peasant occupying the throne was certainly a novel event, regarded stories of the pending changes to Ivalice with a skeptical eye. In the end, however, both camps were flabbergasted when the peasant born king delivered the very opposite of their bleak expectations.

Rather than retribution, he offered clemency to those former enemies that pledged to support his efforts in mending Ivalice's many wounds. And, whether it was brokering negotiations for distressed nobles to sell land they could no longer maintain to displaced Ivalicians eager to build new homes for themselves, or lifting tariffs in order to ensure a freer flow of goods to Ivalice's still distressed peoples, each and all were amazed at how the unheard-of had become commonplace under Delita's rule.

Many peasants, once certain that their humble birth was their fate, were stunned that one of their own could not only accomplish such a meteoric rise above the limits of his impoverished origins, but also seemed capable of chiseling out handholds by which the lowly might climb above and beyond their humble stations. Many nobles - some who had been bankrupted by the war and sought any means of escape from destitution, others who knew the best way to survive in this new Ivalice was to hitch their wagons to a rising star, and those who'd privately shared Balbanes and Orlandu's beliefs that a king had no less a duty to safeguard the lowly than he did the highborn - were eager to embrace the new king's proffered hand of friendship. In the end, the high and lowly alike flocked to Delita's banner, eager to see what future would be heralded by this pawn who had become a king.

Many, if not all, had once supposed that their lot in life had been decided the moment fate decreed whether they were born in a lord's castle or a farmer's homestead. The intricate, and ever entangled, web of Ivalice's convoluted society often seemed to most a cage of glass, which a person might wear as they did their clothing...but which could never be removed. Thus, it was the lot in life for one born into privilege to lust for more than they were born with and to fear that every shadow might hide a threat, just as surely as it was the lot in life for those of humble birth to labor over the glowing forge, spinning loom, or tilled fields, and where the best prospect was the relief of earning enough to keep a roof over their heads.

Though few would admit it, there had been those of high birth who'd found themselves wondering what their lives would be like if they'd been born as one who had no cause to distrust every stranger, nor to begin every meal wondering if it was this morsel or that which might have the poison. There were also no shortage of the lowly who'd pondered what a life of luxury might be like, where food was as abundant as it was decadent and where servants catered to ones every whim.

Some of these envious souls were aware that, whether it was anonymity or luxury they craved, it came at a price; but all such fantasies were dismissed as simply that, fantasies.

The glass cage had no doors, no hinges, no locks, no means of egress.

But, with living proof to the contrary now steering the helm of Ivalice, many began to wonder if they too might trace a very different path in the world than the cold logic of centuries would have dictated.

Soon enough, however, this was no mere musing but an unfolding reality.

Many nobles on either side of the war had been bankrupted financing the conflict and, though some had managed to pull themselves free of the jaws of destitution, others failed to manage that same egress. For some, they were too blinded by their pride to even consider haggling with peasants, even with the alternatives so bleak. For others, they simply had nothing to offer, their lands too damaged to be worth selling and those treasures they might part with having already been sold or stolen or otherwise lost. For both such parties, the road forward had proven long, twisted, and filled with ruts.

Those nobles who'd decided the only escape from poverty lay in allying with Delita had been bewildered enough to be bending their knee to a king who was born a peasant, but sitting across the negotiating table from more peasants had been no less stupefying. Not many such liaisons had succeeded easily, and quite a few didn't succeed at all. In some cases, the pride of centuries simply weighed too heavily to be dislodged, even by the far more ancient instinct to survive. In other cases, suspicion, mutual and otherwise, of being cheated, substantiated and otherwise, caused such endeavors to stall until one side or the other pushed back from the table and elected to try their luck elsewhere.

And for more than a few, who either could not or would not look at one of low birth and see anything more than chattel straying outside their proper station, such a leap of faith as negotiating with them as equal partners could no more succeed than an attempt to snatch a star from the heavens.

Thus, whether pride, prejudice, suspicion, or contempt, each and all proved less a weight to shoulder than a weight which pulled beneath the waves those who clung to it.

For those nobles who did remain at the table, however, their motives were no less desparate than the reasoning of those who'd never bothered to sit down in the first place.

For some, it was strictly a matter of practicality, with the threat posed by a horde of debt collectors and creditors eclipsing this hunting ground that had been untouched since before King Omdolia's death or that villa which had spent years doing little more than gather dust. For others, it was a throwback to the olden days of highborn Ivalicians jockeying for position, though the game board was now radically different. Where once there had been a plethora of dukes, counts, barons, and lords amongst which one might spin a web of convenient alliances and weave filaments with which to ensnare and strangle their foes, there was but one power broker in Ivalice and one man by whose leave the nobles kept whatever they had left, and that was King Delita Hyral the First.

And so, whether by strategically demanding less in return than might be expected or by digging deep into their purses to offer more, each and all was done in the hopes that the newly crowned king would notice and look upon such an act with favor. Others still, realizing that the lives they'd once had were beyond recovery, chose to simply move forward. For some, this meant lamenting their ill turn of fortune in a life of dissipation until their unlamented end, but for those who were younger and more ambitious, the notion of having to build a new life with only their own inner resources held a certain thrill. Some discovered talents hitherto unknown to them, others found unlikely friends by reaching across the ancient divides that separated class from class, even finding true allies amongst those whose former wartime allegiances had not mirrored their own, and still others realized a new and very different pride in creating a great legacy rather than simply inheriting it.

For many of low birth, the transition had been equally jarring. Many who'd been forced to abandon their homes in the face of poverty and starvation had long pined for the chance to return to their old homes and their old lives, even though they knew both to be impossible. Though some had held out the hope that Lesalia, the jewel of the realm, would offer them succor and the chance to rebuild their lives, this dream largely gave way to a nightmare of mutual contempt that promptly ignited into violence between the castaways who'd lost their livelihoods and the native Lesalians whose city was crumbling under the influx of desperate souls. The uneasy calm brought about by King Delita had been had been shocking enough, but what came next caused jaws to drop in every camp.

The idea of negotiating with nobles, who could no longer afford to maintain their land, and to sell it to displaced peasants, no less, had seemed too bizarre to believe. More than a few half expected one of noble blood to be able to conjure gold out of thin air whenever some itch of profligacy struck them. Others, of a more rational persuasion, were very much of the opinion that an impoverished noble would rather hang their family crest in a cave and sleep on a hibernating bear than turn to the lowly for help, let alone as part of an equal partnership.

Men being turned into demons by magical rocks seemed less impossible.

But, then again, so had a man born the son of a farmer ascending to the throne. And, more to the point, many of those peasants to whom Delita made his appeal had no homes to return to, no work, little money, and families to think of. And so, with equal parts trepidation and mystification, the unlikely partners took to the negotiating table to discuss how to reverse Ivalice's decades of misfortune.

The unlikely partnership, however, was far from harmonious.

Just as more than a few of the nobles left the table out of either pride, prejudice, suspicion, or contempt, a number of their humbly born counterparts did likewise. Some, who remembered how they were sitting across from the same people who once could've evict them with the snap of a finger and who would happily bleed them dry in rents for the most paltry offense, were delighted at such desperation on the part of those they'd long feared and hated. Others, knowing the nobles had been long practiced at the art of spinning and twisting words to suit their ends, suspected treachery. And still more, those who had a more intimate awareness of the depth of the nobles' former lives of excess and how far removed such was from that of one who was born and died in toil and squalor, could no more conceive a reason to help them than they could a reason to expect an equitable agreement to be reached, let alone honored.

And so, they left, returning to their families and their fellows, only to see a reason to go back to the table in each and every desperate face, each sunken cheek, and every moist eye.

Some were chastened by the sight, others were reminded that indulging their suspicions and grudges did nothing to put roofs over these peoples' heads nor food on their tables, and still more wondered what they had to lose in any case. Thus, the negotiations were reconvened.

King Delita chaired these strange conferences, speaking only to encourage, to mediate, and, when needed, to suggest an alternative when the proponents had locked horns a bit too tightly. Yet, for the most part, he was content to watch. And, he beheld quite a sight indeed.

Spurred by their mutual desperation, and by all that might go to wrack and ruin if they failed, concessions were made, obstacles were reasoned around, promises without precedent but with the weight of a nation's future riding upon them, were forged and signed, and then stamped with the authority of a most unlikely king.

Yet, the sojourn into the unknown did not end there.

Many of the peasants who'd once robbed and vandalized businesses in Lesalia were offered incentives to work off the damages. And some, spurred as much by a vengeful conscience as their king's eloquence, did so with such dedication that they were hired on as true employees afterward. Others banded together with friends and neighbors, new and old, and hired out wherever they could put their shared talents to use for an honest day's wages. And others still were able to rebuild their former livelihoods and, with the lands purchased from the distressed nobles to use as a base of operations and with taxes and tariffs sharply reduced, they were able to make a far better living than before.

Thus, in a land where one's birth had once been one's fate, nobles born into wealth now faced the challenge of building a new legacy with their own wits and skills, peasants once considered as bred to be expendable were now actively sought after for their talents, and both had managed to find a way to snatch Ivalice back from the brink of ruin through the unheard-of act of negotiating a solution as equal partners.

The land of Ivalice was changing. And, into what, no one truly knew.

All the people could say for certain, as nobles and peasants rallied to the new king's banner and a man of low birth conjured one portent after another of a hopeful future, was that those who spared a moment to glance into the mirror never saw the same person staring back at them twice.

Granted, the eyes, nose, chin, and mouth did not betray the transformation, and the hair about the head and face showed nothing that could not be attributed to time and the strain of the day. Yet, there was no hiding that no one in Ivalice had come through the War of the Lions unchanged. Some had changed for the better, as had those nobles and peasants who chose to make their unlikely union work. Others had changed for the worse, such as those who'd turned to thuggery after arriving as a castaway in Lesalia and who'd remained deaf to any murmur of conscience afterwards. Some had endured, such as those nobles who'd chosen to create a new legacy to replace their lost inheritance and those peasants who'd built prosperous lives with their own two hands. Others had been broken, such as those who lived lives of dissipation in sordid corners of Ivalice, whiling away what time and coin they hand left on drink and opiates until their lamentations ended in a final gasp.

Yet, in a land where nobles and peasants, who had each lost so much now aspired to claim a better future, the mirror always showed that none were the same person they'd been since the sacking of Lesalia heralded the War of the Lions. And, on the heels of such a realization came the simple truth that there was no going back. By that same token, the cage of glass that once held an Ivalician in the world into which they'd been born, and allowed neither the ingress of those without nor the egress of those within, no longer seemed so impermeable.

The cage of glass had already begun to shudder when a man born a farmer's son rose to the throne, and now it was beginning to crack.

Many began to wonder if the cage of glass might soon shatter.


	18. And all the Little Children, Father Bless Them Too

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Falchion1984: Hello again, loyal readers. This is an interlude which I've written in order to plug a continuity gap in the story, namely the immediate aftermath of Manon and Charlotte being allowed to stay in Lionel Castle and where the other several dozen children who'd helped prepare Ramza and Agrias' wedding feast had come from. This was originally meant to occur sooner, but juggling several collab projects and a job caused my partners to outpace me, so I reworked the plan for this chapter to occur both in the past, just after Manon and Charlotte's first few hours in Lionel Castle, and the present, with Alma (or, rather Catherine Seymour) preparing for the ball. Italicized text denotes the former while plain text denotes the latter. I would also like to shout-out to a newfound friend, Bluefelt, who proved invaluable when I was struggling with these most recent chapters and offered copious advice with which to get the muses singing again. If you're reading this, Bluefelt, thank you very much. And, as always guys, review are like digital hugs. So go forth and get hugging! Also, I plugged three separate series here. One is from a series of video games, one a series of computer games, and the last a series of children's books I enjoyed way back when. Kudos if you can identify them all.

"Ho! Ha, ha! Guard! Turn! Parry! Dodge! Spin! Ha! THRUST!"

"Think you could make any more noise, Manon?"

Heady with imaginings that the training dummy before him was a true opponent, one of flesh and blood and malice, Manon completed his thrust, the tip of his stout wooden blade plunging into the dummy's shoulder and setting it spinning on its post. Flush with how deftly he'd managed to chain together the complicated series of feints and attacks, Manon turned to his small audience and thrust his blade skyward in a victory salute...

...only for one of the spinning dummy's wooden arms to smack him in the back of the head, sending him sprawling.

Charlotte and the Murry twins giggled merrily, and then laughed raucously as Manon, who was never one to dwell on minor embarrassments, accused the dummy of cowardice and began railing aspersions against its immediate relations.

"You might want to mind your language, with the little ladies in the room," Alicia warned, though chuckles punctuated her words.

Rachel promptly accentuated the point by clapping her tiny hands and gurgling happily, almost as if she were trying to imitate some of Manon's less-than-gentlemanly words.

In a perfect farce of self-recrimination, Manon gasped, bolted over to the Murry twins and bowed.

"My fair ladies, I must beg your forgiveness and hope you will not judge the whole of my order for the boorish actions of one man," he implored, and his words might have been convincing had the two knights not been able to peer over the kneeling boy's shoulders and spy his fingers crossed behind his back.

Charlotte, who'd been trying to read up on some of the duties she'd later be expected to fulfill for Duchess Seymour, resigned herself to not being able to get a minute of studying done with all the commotion. With a sigh, she closed her book and settled in to watch the spectacle.

The several weeks since that fateful day she and Manon had crossed the doorstep of the supposedly haunted Lionel Castle had been an endless parade of astonishment. And, of those many surprises, the "haunted" castle being inhabited by people as alive as she herself was had likely proven the least. Since then, and for the first time in her young life, she had found a home that she would not have to scurry away from at first light. More than that, she had found friends who, despite their initial reservations, treated her with kindness and respect, and who'd helped her to find a direction beyond simply scrapping together enough food to see out one more day.

This acceptance did not come without a cost, not the smallest reason being that Charlotte had made the acquaintance of Duchess Seymour, or Lady Catherine as she preferred to be called, by trying to steal from her. But, it was a cost that Charlotte later came to call a bargain. Less than a month beforehand, she and Manon had been out on the street, begging for or stealing their daily bread, moving from town to town as the locals got wise to their activities, and where the prospect of starvation loomed every bit as large as it did during the wars while even the vaguest notion of anything better seemed a remote fantasy at best and a mockingly unobtainable dream at worst.

Yet, where she'd fully expected to be hung after having been caught stealing from Lady Catherine, she'd instead found that she'd discovered that distant dream by the most capricious of chances.

But still, Charlotte was wise enough to notice some oddities about her newfound benefactors.

The Duchess and her retinue had been tightlipped about why it was just the handful of them in an entire castle, and one the people of Lionel province were terrified of, no less. But, it was obvious that the strange scarcity of people living under their roof meant that there was always a great deal to do. There was always food to be cooked, dishes, cutlery and clothing to be washed, dusting and sweeping to be done, floors and windows to be cleaned, and beds to be made.

Keeping up an entire castle with so few hands was a monumental task and, though the Duchess's retinue had been skeptical of the two ragamuffins, they'd later come to appreciate the help. What's more, they were willing to pay the children for their trouble, entrusting Charlotte with a sum of money that was hers to spend as she so pleased, and with the promise of more following the next day's work.

That she'd never been shorted one gil from the Duchess, who had yet to hire the small army of servants her station commanded, still seemed strange. But, neither Charlotte nor Manon were keen to pry into the affairs of the only people who'd ever shown them kindness.

And, even if they had been, they were too busy.

Apart from enjoying such wonders as toys, new clothes, and sweets purchased with their newfound money, the subsequent recruitment of other former ward mates had seen changes come to Manon and Charlotte's responsibilities in the castle. Where Charlotte had mostly helped with the cleaning and cooking, not to mention the taste-testing, she now had a whole staff of small children to direct as they prepared and served meals to the castle and scrubbed away the long neglect their newfound home had suffered since losing two of its former lords. Apart from making sure her new charges were diligent in their chores, Lady Catherine had also voiced the possibility that, when Charlotte was old enough, she might become a lady-in-waiting for the Duchess of Lionel. Even before Charlotte actually knew what that entailed, which turned out to be a great deal, she'd been touched by the show of not only trust but that Lady Catherine would want a one-time ragamuffin at her shoulder as she painted, embroidered, danced, and rode through the countryside, not to mention being entrusted with her correspondence, wardrobe, and itinerary.

That had meant there was a great deal to learn, and it seemed Charlotte's days were largely split between reading through books on court etiquette and balancing those same books on her head as she tried to master walking gracefully and with the correct posture. Still, both the gesture of trust and the sheer wonder of how much there was to learn had set her blood afire with excitement. And so, she studied diligently...even though she had a long way to go.

Granted, she likely could not take such a post until she was at least sixteen, but she vowed to be ready long beforehand.

As for Manon, he'd been kept busy as well.

Though Rad, Alicia, and Lavian had been amused at having a fourth player in their rude games, it was obvious that Duke Seymour, Lady Agrias, and a few others did not approve. And, though Charlotte had tried to hide the curious ache she felt at seeing Manon's hand fondling the breasts of the Murry twins, in pairs and even quartets, she'd felt no small amount of relief when Sir Beowulf had taken it upon himself to discourage this behavior.

As for how that was to be done, well, scarce are the boys who do not dream of knighthood.

Manon's giddiness had faltered for an instant when he'd been informed that his lessons would not consist entirely of swinging glittering swords and gallivanting about on chocobos fitted with shiny barding, but would also include many disciplines that were every bit as much a part of a knight as sword or armor. There was the chivalric code, the creed of honor by which a knight lived and died, and which he or she would sooner forfeit life than bring shame upon. There was the vigil-at-arms, where a knight would forgo sleep and stay awake and alert for threats, acting as a shield and first defense for friends and comrades all through the night. Furthermore, Manon would be taught such skills as maintaining weapons and armor, lest they fail him during battle, and that, since a knight is sworn to defend the weak, he could just as easily find himself helping poor farmers replace looted stores and carry medicine to villages stricken with illness as he might find himself riding to war.

When Sir Beowulf had made it clear that he'd tolerate neither any groping of backsides nor fondling of breasts from his pupil, and punctuated such with a warning glare at Rad and the Murry twins, Manon's enthusiasm had faltered for a full two heartbeats.

But, ultimately, those same better angels that compelled Manon to rescue Charlotte from being pressed into prostitution, and then to later offer his own neck in place of hers after being caught stealing from Lady Catherine, proved the stronger and he took to his training with vigor and determination.

And, it showed. Though his smile was as roguish as ever, he'd acquired a new air of maturity and confidence, not to mention a fair bit of muscle on his once gaunt frame. Charlotte had more than once caught herself staring as Manon, discarding his shirt as often as not, practiced the forms, stances, parries, and attacks with his blade, his lithe but toned form glistening with sweat long before he'd decided that he'd practiced enough. And, more than once, Manon had caught her staring. Strangely, behind the roguish smile, Charlotte thought she could sense that Manon, blithe and self-assured though he so often seemed, was genuinely nervous about what others thought of him in the role of a would-be knight.

She'd told him not to worry and, in her more daring moments, intimated that his helping her escape from that dreadful workhouse meant he'd proven his skill at rescuing fair maidens.

Still, the excitement the two children had felt during their first few weeks in Lionel Castle had promptly been dwarfed by the shock and thrill of accompanying Lady Catherine to Lesalia Castle, the gleaming heart of the kingdom.

The ride through the city had certainly left the children speechless, for though the capital hadn't been spared the ravages of war, it's well tended cobblestone paths, bustling markets, and stately buildings had been more than enough to make their jaws creak open in amazement.

Even the grown-ups travelling with them were not immune, for they'd been staring out their windows quite a bit as well...yet it seemed they'd spotted something that the children had overlooked. And, whatever it was, it had them worried for some reason.

After Lady Catherine had left their company so she could fitted for the ball - immediately after she'd left, in fact - Duke Seymour and Lady Agrias had hurriedly conferred with Sir Beowulf, Lady Reis, Rad, and the Murry twins. They'd talked much too quietly for either Manon or Charlotte to hear anything they were saying, but there was no mistaking their tense postures and urgent tones. When the two children had tried to sneak in closer, they'd promptly been spotted and Lady Agrias had, rather insistently, suggested that the Murry twins lead the children, as well as baby Rachel, on a tour of the castle. Though the rebuff was obvious, neither Manon nor Charlotte were of a mind to refuse.

There had been no shortage of poor, lonely children who'd fantasized about visiting so grandiose a place as Lesalia Castle, and they weren't about to let such a singular opportunity go to waste.

After Alicia and Lavian, who'd visited the castle often during their time amongst the Lionsguard, had guided them through a maze of opulent corridors and showed them such sights as the lavish ballroom and the opulent dining hall, Manon had asked to see the armory and training hall. Giggling something about "youthful dedication", Alicia and Lavian led the children to a bare but expansive room whose walls were lined with weapons and armor of all descriptions. While Manon was busy whacking the training dummy, and sometimes causing his audience to question just which one of them was the "dummy", Charlotte had been idly reviewing her lessons and watching as Alicia and Lavian amused themselves by plucking various helms and hats from the racks and pegs about the room, gently lowering them onto Rachel's head, and teasingly critiquing how she looked wearing them.

Right now, Rachel was wearing the plumed felt hat favored by archers and looked rather fetching. Or, Charlotte supposed so, since the hat was much too big and covered everything above the baby's tiny chin.

Charlotte couldn't help but chortle merrily as Rachel's head swiveled every which-where, wondering what had put out the lights and, once the Murry twins finally pulled off the hat, the young girl was enchanted at the sight of the baby studying the bright plumage.

Her ruminations were interrupted, however, when she heard the door abruptly open and then close again. Several pairs of eyes darted in the direction of the sound to see Lady Catherine, and Charlotte had been in the midst of an instinctive curtsy when the sight of the Duchess's expression brought her up short before she could even spread her skirt.

Lady Catherine looked stricken. And, all present already knew why.

Even Rachel seemed to burble in discomfited concern at her aunt's distress.

Lady Catherine, only belatedly realizing that she wasn't alone, gasped in surprise, painted a smile across her face, and had been about to excuse herself when Charlotte, likely breaking some rule of decorum or other, dashed over and seized her wrist.

"Milady, I dare say you look like you need to sit down," Charlotte intoned politely, but still keeping a tight enough grip to discourage any further attempts to flee.

Lady Catherine was a good woman but, as Charlotte had found out over the past few weeks, she had a stubborn streak about her when it came to asking for help. So, much like those others who cared for her, Charlotte had learned to be...insistent.

As had Manon, for he was no less quick on the uptake as a budding knight than he had been as a street waif who had to pilfer every meal. Taking advantage of Charlotte's diversion, he approached the spluttering duchess, bowed, and offered one of his newly learned courtly greetings. His display was well worded and well practiced, right down to how he "incidentally" interposed himself between Lady Catherine and the door. The Duchess of Lionel looked as though she wanted to protest, but the words died in her throat when Alicia and Lavian rose, claimed that Rachel was overdue for her nap, and asked if she could watch the children until they had the baby safely tucked in.

Lady Catherine's lips parted in a sigh, one that carried a terrible note of resignation, but offered no objection. The two children were quick to help her to a well padded bench, likely used by those judging sparring matches. Even after she was seated, a haunted look yet persisted on her features and what words the children offered went unheard.

She just kept one hand on her stomach and repeatedly mouthed what might have been the phrase "it all seems so real now".

Neither child needed to ask what she meant, even if they thought they could make themselves heard over the unhappy thoughts roiling in the duchess's mind. Besides, since they both knew about her child, the trembling hand against her stomach was more than enough of a hint.

Maybe, one day, Manon would be a great knight, as mighty and as chivalrous as he was brave and loyal. And, perhaps one day, Charlotte would be a lady-in-waiting of great beauty and sophistication. But, right now, Lady Catherine, whose unexpected generosity had made all that possible, did not need either a shining knight to defend her honor nor a charming companion at her shoulder as she painted and embroidered.

Right now, above all else, she needed a friend.

And, she had two, both of whom were eager to oblige.

Not for the first time, Charlotte found herself wondering just what Lady Catherine's brother, sister-in-law, and other friends were up to, especially when they were so badly needed here. What had they seen on the way into Lesalia that had them so worried that they'd left Lady Catherine with only the company of her dark thoughts about her uncertain future?

Of course, that was but one question amongst many that percolated in the heads of the former street waifs. After all, it was more than odd enough that the Duke and Duchess of Lionel were living in a supposedly haunted castle that was feared all over the province, that they had a veritable fortune and yet were very nearly alone in the castle when they should've had hundreds of servants, and that they'd almost never gone out until very recently. That their first extended outing was to the gleaming heart of Ivalice - to a ball held in their honor, no less - was as bizarre as it was extravagant.

Granted, Manon and Charlotte had heard their benefactors' explanations - even the "unofficial" one as to why the balls were taking place - and yet persistent voices in the back of their young minds told them that there was a great deal more at work than met the eye.

And, maybe there was, but Charlotte shook it off.

Lady Catherine likely had her secrets, as did the rest of the closemouthed people around her, but she was also the one person who had shown them compassion and respect when everyone else had offered indifference at best and contempt at worst.

If all she and Manon could offer in return for the time being was to remind Lady Catherine that she wasn't alone, then they would do so gladly.

Not able to offer much else, the two children wrapped their arms around the distraught duchess, hoping that she could sense that, as frightened and lonely as she was, there were still people who cared for her.

And, that they'd care for her baby as well.

That musing caused Charlotte's thoughts to wend their way backward, tracing a path over the past several weeks and how, in the most unlikely of places, a new chapter in her life had begun and, at long last, the once distant dream of happiness now seemed to be unfolding before her eyes.

* * *

_One of the many truisms of Ivalice, born from more than a half-century of war and death and hunger and chaos, was that certainty was the kingdom's scarcest commodity._

_The sense that one's future was firmly in hand, and that one would pass the evening peacefully and see the dawn just as surely as the sun crested the horizon, was one that rarely took root in the unforgiving soil beneath which so many Ivalicians had been entombed when some cruel whimsy of fate sent them on a different course. Rarer still was it for certainty to blossom and endure for days, let alone years, in the hearts of Ivalicians who, after so many troubled years, rarely passed one waking hour without wondering if this shadow or that held some misfortune which lay in wait, poised to spring._

_But, as her first day in the supposedly haunted Lionel Castle drew to a close, Charlotte was indelibly certain of two things. The first was that she had eaten more in the past six hours than she had in the past six days._

_"Ooooohhhhh!"_

_And the second was that doing so had not been wise._

_"Ooooooooohhhhhhhhhh!"_

_Charlotte had been too young to remember her life before she'd found herself under the "care" of one of the defunct Lionel workhouses and, if there had been any hint as to her parentage, it had been lost when Cardinal Draclau's payments to the workhouses had stopped coming and the orphans had been abandoned to their new, sordid lives. There were days Charlotte had concocted elaborate fantasies about the mother and father she'd never met, wondering if one of the other had been a knight and whether they'd been wealthy or well liked by their fellows. As she grew older, however, these fantasies became tinged with suspicion._

_After all, if her parents had been knights, or if they'd been wealthy, then why had she been tossed onto the crumbling workhouse's doorstep like a toy that nobody wanted?_

_Wouldn't her parents have made arrangements and set aside money, so that she'd be taken care of if the worst came to pass? For that matter, if they'd been well liked, why hadn't one of their friends offered to take her in after they'd died?_

_For that matter, were her parents truly dead?_

_Many of the children at the workhouses had parents who were still alive, but who'd sent them there because they weren't wanted. Other children ended up there because their parents were poor and couldn't afford to keep them, some because they had been ne'er-do-wells and their parents had thrown them out, and still more because they weren't true born and were sent away rather than allowed to expose what unhappy spouses did behind one another's backs._

_Had one of those been the reason why Charlotte's parents had never come back for her? Granted, almost none of the other children's parents ever came for them, but in her darker moments, Charlotte had found herself wondering at the full story behind her journey to that crumbling den of inequity._

_It had not been a journey of her choosing - indeed, she would've happily traded any of her meager possessions to undo that journey - but, she still wondered nonetheless. Could any of her idle fantasies have been true? Could she have, for reasons likely lost to her, been torn from a home where she might've lived in comfort and had her every wish fulfilled? When she'd peered into one of the few panes of glass and saw her dirty face staring back at her, she pondered the big blue eyes and the lush, if unkempt, blonde hair. Had her eyes come from her father and her hair from her mother, or was it the other way around?_

_She could not say, and she often found herself wondering if that would ever change. And yet, even after the adults had left the workhouses and the older children had turned to lives of crime, Charlotte had always nursed the private hope that someone out there would come for her...right up until the moment that Francine had tried to offer her up to those dirty old men._

_Even before Manon had knocked Francine off her feet and dragged Charlotte with him as he took to the road, she'd already decided that she couldn't stay in that wretched warren any longer. If no one had cared enough to come for her by then, no one would..._

_...but, to her amazement, her flight had taken her and Manon right into the arms of someone who did care._

_Though Charlotte had seen at least a few highborn ladies, usually after she'd lightened their purses, none had been like Duchess Seymour. She was far younger than most, since there weren't many younger nobles left after most had departed for the wars never to return. She was also much prettier. Not just because of her blue eyes, though they certainly warmed Charlotte's heart, nor her red tresses, though Charlotte was awed by the unique color and silky texture. Perhaps it was her emotive face, how her high cheekbones had lent her a regal air which contrasted with how the suffusion of red hinted at a young and vibrant woman underneath. Manon was certainly impressed by her figure, as there was no hiding how her hips bobbed and swayed as she walked, nor was there any doubt as to the shapeliness of her legs. But, what truly amazed Charlotte was how, faced with a pair of filthy urchins who'd tried to steal from her - and, in Manon's case, had reached up her skirts and clawed at her hindquarters as a diversion - she hadn't sent them straight to the gallows._

_Instead, Duchess Seymour had shown them mercy, even kindness. And, that was likely what made her seem most beautiful to Charlotte._

_Every other lady Charlotte had seen before coming to Lionel seem hideous by comparison._

_Maybe it was the turning of the years, that had turned once bright eyes cold and hard while turning supple flesh into pinched masks of rage, which had caused more than a few of the highborn ladies she's seen before to seem so terrifying. Perhaps it was the grief, for there was never a shortage of highborn ladies who'd seen off their sons, or daughters, or husbands, or brothers, or sisters, or fathers, or mothers, who had departed for war never to return. Perhaps it was base instinct, born centuries before even the conception of the blue-blooded had been concocted, that one who would seek that which belonged to another was a threat and that such a pilferer might strike again. Or, it might've been a different base instinct. One deeper, and darker, and uglier._

_Whatever the reason, whenever they'd shrieked promised threats to see Charlotte hang, she'd believed them._

_It barely felt real that Duchess Seymour had been cut from such a different cloth, and yet there was proof in every breath that Charlotte yet drew in and let fountain out again. That curious expression that had come over her face when she beheld the two ragamuffins yet remained a mystery to the girl, and the question yet persisted in the back of her mind. That there had been neither contempt nor a lust for blood was bizarre enough, but there had also been...what, precisely? Nostalgia? Empathy? And yet, both seemed balanced against something that almost seemed like grief._

_Charlotte did not understand and wondered if she ever would, but she nonetheless found herself wondering if it would be best to respect Duchess Seymour's privacy or if she ought to ask and offer a kind ear._

_As strange a concept as it was for the orphaned girl, who'd had to scrape or steal for her food and had never had anything simply given to her, she owed Duchess Seymour. This woman, who she hadn't even met until just that morning, had snatched Charlotte from the jaws of either a swift death by hanging or the slow torture of starvation. In a world where such a thing seemed to only exist in storybooks, it was truly a bizarre notion. And, after a lifetime where simply ensuring that she lived another day had consumed every thought and every hour of every day, Charlotte found herself pondering not only the question of why a complete stranger would care for a wretched waif like her but also what she might do in return. And, it was a question that had her mind tied in knots._

_Still, though the temptation had been there, Charlotte had decided not to simply snatch up what food she could and then slip away once there were no eyes upon her. Something in the duchess's sky blue eyes had caused her to stay, made her want to stay. And so, rather than raid the kitchen, Charlotte thought that she might start repaying her unsought benefactor by helping to prepare a meal..._

_...though, the kitchen was certainly a bit emptier afterward._

_Francine, the would-be madam who had been ready to offer up Charlotte to the carnal whims of the highest bidder, catered to the sort of clientele that was partial to girls they could pick up, and hold down, with one hand, and so Charlotte was allowed only whatever nourishment was needed to keep her alive. And, no more._

_Once Charlotte had found herself in a kitchen crammed full of foodstuffs, she could literally feel her shriveled stomach yawn wide and roar with anticipation. Though she'd valiantly worked to keep her focus on her cooking, keeping track of any flaws in her dishes and jotting down any mistakes so that she might avoid repeating them later, quite a bit of what she'd concocted passed her lips well before it ever got to the table. True, that roasted potato had been much too salty and it wouldn't do for ill-prepared fare to either mar Duchess Seymour's meal or for it to go to waste. The same held true for the overdone bacon which might otherwise have spoiled the quiche, those rolls that looked less presentable than their fellows, and..._

_"Oooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhh!"_

_Even an idle musing which involved food was enough to send Charlotte's stomach, already taut and turgid, roiling in protest under her fingertips. Her stomach might've seemed bottomless after weeks - or was it months? - of hunger, but the sense that there was a yawning chasm between her ribs had proven quite deceptive. Whether it was the roaring hunger that very nearly drowned out everything else, the lingering fear that Duchess Seymour's hospitality might prove fleeting, or the sheer novelty of so many tantalizing dishes ripe for the picking, Charlotte's tenuous self-control had snapped the moment her duties in the kitchen were fulfilled. One plate was filled and picked clean, followed by another. And another. And another._

_And another._

_By the time she'd noticed that her stomach's famished rumblings had been replaced with the sort of sloshing that called to mind an overfull water balloon, it was well and truly too late._

_More than the sense that her stomach, now packed to the brim, was stretched drum tight and felt ready to tear open, there were the expressions of her dining companions once she'd bothered to glance up at them. They looked rather startled, and more than a bit nauseated, at the spectacle she must've put on. Charlotte had had few occasions to feel embarrassed, but she suspected she wouldn't forget that one anytime soon, for she could feel a reddish tinge mingle with the burgeoning green on her cheeks and, unsteady though she was on her feet, she lurched from her chair and out of sight._

_For a long, long moment, she'd felt literally ill with mortification at how piggish she must've looked in front of her unlikely benefactor, which readily complimented how very nearly sick she felt from how her overtaxed stomach sloshed and groaned from the abuse. But, both were forgotten when Duchess Seymour asked Alicia and Lavian to put Charlotte up in the spare bed_ of _their shared room and called out that she'd be along with something to help the overstuffed girl sleep. And, despite their leveling their blades at Charlotte and Manon but a few hours past, she somehow found herself unafraid when the twin knights helped her to their room. She even found herself laughing along with them as they recounted little Rachel's latest bouts of mischief. Apparently, the baby girl had mistaken a bowl of sauces for something akin to her rattle and had begun shaking it about, spattering the grown-ups, and a goodly portion of the room, with great globs of apple, ginger, garlic pine nut, and Lionel mustard sauces._

_The room which the Murry twins would be sharing with Charlotte was modest, with none of the frills and ostentatious displays that crowded the illustrations of the girl's storybooks. She might've been perplexed by this, even though it was a vast improvement over the cold and drafty room she'd had at the workhouse. After all, Duchess Seymour seemed a woman of breeding and must've been quite wealthy. Yet, all that Charlotte had seen of the castle seemed very austere, almost depressingly so. No less strange, Charlotte had thought Duchess Seymour would have dozens, if not hundreds of servants, yet those inhabitants of the castle she'd seen thus far could be counted on both hands, and with a finger or two to spare._

_Something struck her as odd about all this, but Charlotte felt it drift out of her head as the room's hearth was lit with a minor fire spell and the previously chilly room became delightfully warm. Gingerly, and with more than a bit of assistance from the Murry twins, Charlotte heaved herself onto a bed which, perhaps not coincidentally, was situated close enough to the hearth that shadows of the licking flames danced across the girl's bed sheets. Though the bed in which she'd found herself looked as understated as everything else she'd seen, Charlotte had passed several years sleeping on damp floors with threadbare blankets, and the latter only occasionally._

_Now, she might as well have been sleeping on a cloud..._

_...or, at least she would've been if her stomach would settle and let her get some rest._

_She was only dimly aware of the Murry twins saying they were returning to the dining hall, whispering something about a "new playmate", which had Charlotte rolling her eyes._

_The two knights were undoubtedly referring to Manon, who had always been quick to notice a pretty girl and was especially keen on attractive older women. And, even without the hint, it had been hard to ignore either Rad encouraging Manon's wandering hands in their explorations of the Murry twins' bosoms and hindquarters or the Murry twins critiquing Manon's probing._

_It was also hard to ignore how the sight had...affected Charlotte. She lacked the words to make sense of what the sensation that ran through her was, or why it did, but she nonetheless felt a curious twinge in her chest whenever she saw Manon engaged in such rude games with the Murry twins, and it only got worse when they seemed so appreciative._

_It had been the same with Francine, once upon a time, and Charlotte had tried to feel happy for them. Francine and Manon had been friends for years by then, and Charlotte had once thought the seventeen-year-old girl a friend of hers as well before her older ward mate had tried to offer up the younger girls to men of disreputable faces and even worse intent. Yet, both before and after Francine's betrayal, even the recollection of Manon's hands wandering over the older girl's form caused something to ache in Charlotte's small breast._

_That earlier sliver of envy crept over her again as she recalled her first sighting Duchess Seymour, and how she'd made both Charlotte and Francine look every bit the ragamuffins they were. But, though that envy was promptly sent slinking away when she recalled the many kindnesses that Duchess Seymour had shown her, the memory of how Manon never looked at Charlotte like he did the Duchess, the Murry twins, or even Francine, caused a curdling in the small girl's no-longer-so-small gut, and this curdling had nothing to do with her overeating._

_"Oooooooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"_

_Reminded pointedly of what else had her stewing in bed, and even such an analogy setting her abused gut a-roiling, Charlotte lay back against her pillow and futilely struggled to fall asleep. But, even though she felt safe enough under Duchess Seymour's roof, recollections of her earlier life, of trying to rouse herself before she could be kicked awake by her more abusive ward mates or slipping away before the dawn so that none of the townsfolk noticed her acts of vagrancy, kept her nerves taut and her eyes open._

_They remained so for a long time, even when her eyelids began to inch downwards, but her eyes pulsed wide when the door suddenly banged open. For a single, terrifying instant, she was back in the workhouse, one of the older girls keen to kick her awake and devise some manner of humiliation to punish her for sleeping in. But, when she spied Manon in the doorframe, Charlotte sagged with relief._

_"I know I look dashing, but there's no need to gasp," Manon said cheekily. "Gives the wrong impression."_

_Charlotte's lips parted in a breathy sigh of annoyance, but she felt strangely better. Not all of the memories she shared with Manon were pleasant, even if none of that had been his fault, but having him near did bring a drop of familiarity to the unknown sea they'd unwittingly plunged into. Manon was a rogue, a rapscallion, and his wandering hands were certain to rile the wrong person some day; but despite that, Charlotte owed him for saving her from that horrid workhouse and the happy irony that had led them here._

_She also trusted him, which did not happen easily for a street waif who'd been abandoned and abused more than once in her young life. And, since neither the questions buzzing about her head nor the bubbling cauldron beneath her ribs seemed likely to settle anytime soon, she needed to talk to someone she knew she could trust._

_"How're you holding up?" Manon asked, revealing his hidden streak of earnestness._

_"I'm alright," Charlotte replied, but her words were contradicted when a sloshing in her guts caused her to grimace. "Just...a little full."_

"" _A little?_ ""

_"Okay, fine. I've eaten so much, I feel like I'm gonna pop. Are you happy now?"_

_Manon's only answer was a chuckle that had Charlotte grinning despite herself._

_"Sounds like they liked what you could do in the kitchen," he commented. "I had no idea you knew how to cook. Heck, I didn't know you could write either."_

_"I sorta taught myself how to write, from those books they used to read us, before...," Charlotte trailed off, her thoughts wending towards times she desperately wanted to forget. At the last, she mustered her reserve and changed the subject. "But, I honestly didn't know I could cook either. I just cracked open the book and did what it said."_

_"You're selling yourself short, short-stuff," Manon bandied, accentuating the affectionate nickname with a ruffling of Charlotte's blonde tresses. "You left before you found this out, but your bacon quiche was a hit back there. Duchess Seymour really liked it."_

_Charlotte swore she could feel her smile broaden with every word._

_"What about you?" she asked, snickering a little herself this time. "Was climbing those rafters like a big monkey as fun as it looked?"_

_"No, but there were girls to impress," Manon replied glibly, though a hint of honest inquisitiveness stole over his features. "By the way, did it work?"_

_Again, Charlotte's eyes rolled heavenwards, but she somehow found herself wondering if he'd spied her watching as he'd scurried his way towards the ceiling. Had he noticed that she'd stopped breathing when he'd lost his grip for a stretching second only to gasp for air once he was safely climbing again? She did not know, nor was she even sure why she pondered the question. All she really knew was that her heart had threatened to beat itself out of her breast every moment that passed before he had made it back down unharmed._

_Still, Charlotte wasn't going to tell him that._

_"I was leery about the people here, but I'm starting to like them," he went on, apparently having been talking while Charlotte had been lost in thought. "Turns out Rad used to be a pickpocket. His hands are so fast, even I have trouble following them. That new wallet I bought with my first payment? He snatched it right out of my pocket and I didn't even notice until I saw him waving it in my face."_

_"I know what you mean," Charlotte said. "I'm surprised that I don't get nervous around Lady Alicia and Lady Lavian anymore. In fact, they seem really nice. And, baby Rachel is just so cute!"_

_"You know Sir Beowulf? I hear he's a knight. I'm not kidding! He used to be captain of the Gryphon Knights, right here in the castle."_

_Charlotte could believe it, for though it had been no secret that most of the castle's inhabitants had been quite skeptical about allowing the two ragamuffins under their roof, and Charlotte had briefly feared that Duchess Seymour's decision would be countermanded, Sir Beowulf had been quick to side with the two urchins. No less amazing, like many of the knights she'd read about before the workhouse had become her own personal hell, Sir Beowulf would make a point of bowing as she approached and addressing her as "Milady"._

_Beyond the sheer amazement that a knight, a true knight, would treat her with such respect, there was how being addressed as "Milady", as if she wasn't just some urchin plucked off the street, had made her feel like more than she was. Like she was special._

_Like she was wanted._

_Just why he'd chosen to support Duchess Seymour's decision was unknown, for any such discussions about the "implications" of having strangers living in Lionel Castle had invariably begun with the two children either being ordered from the room or assigned some chore in an area of the castle which was far removed from the conference._

_Charlotte hadn't dared violate the group's privacy, lest they decide such an infraction ought to cost the two their place in the castle. And, though Manon had attempted it once or twice, he'd reported that all he'd heard was the telltale language of magic, after which the mysterious group's words abruptly became garbled to the point of incomprehensibility._

_Whatever secrets this group was keeping, they were_ many, _and must've been quite dire to warrant such precautions. And, even after the group had ultimately chosen to respect the duchess's wishes, questions continued to percolate in Charlotte's young mind._

_Yet, Charlotte once again found herself wondering if such mysteries were best left unexplored._

_After all, whatever they might be hiding, these were the same people who, despite their initial reluctance, had allowed the two waifs into their home, put a roof over their heads and food on their plates...even if Charlotte's straining stomach dampened appreciation for the latter. But, at the same time, the curiosity which had drawn Charlotte and Manon to the "haunted" castle's doorstep in the first place yet persisted, especially in light of such further enigmas._

_After a long moment, she glanced up at Manon. And, he must've sensed her thoughts, for his expression became uncharacteristically serious._

_"You noticed too, huh?" he asked, perhaps needlessly. And, at Charlotte's nod, he continued. "Yeah, it's kinda weird that a duke and duchess would be living here. Half the province wants this place torn down, and the other half would soil themselves just by getting close."_

_"And, why are they the only ones here?" Charlotte added. "If they can pay us to clean this place, why didn't they hire grownups? And, how come they never go out?"_

_Manon gave a shrug, clearly at a loss. But, after adopting a look of pensive contemplation that seemed foreign on his often roguish face, he faced her with a serious expression._

_He rarely looked serious about anything; in fact, the only other times Charlotte was certain he had were when he'd discovered Francine's would-be prostitution ring and when he'd feared Charlotte would be hung and offered his neck in place of hers. Now, however, he was breaking precedents in how his normally blithe and mischievous face was very much in earnest._

_"I don't know," he admitted, shattering still another precedent in confessing such. "And, believe me, I tried to find out. Whoever these guys are, they're good. They'd have to be if I can't get the jump on them."_

_Charlotte rolled her eyes at Manon falling back into character and playfully swatted him on the arm. Manon, almost looking irritated, eyed her bulging belly with narrowed eyes._

_"You wouldn't!" Charlotte squeaked. "It hurts if I even breathe too deep! I feel like I'll pop like a water balloon if I so much as poke it!"_

_Manon held the menacing stare for a long moment before he abruptly met Charlotte's eyes and grinned._

_"Ha!" he scoffed playfully. "Gotcha."_

_Charlotte swatted him again, this time with her pillow. Granted, her turgid stomach was quite vehement in its displeasure, but whacking Manon in the face had been as gratifying as it was deserved._

_Manon, acting as though someone had uprooted a tree and swung it into him, made a show of flinging himself off the bed, rolling across the floor, and lolling his head as though he'd been stunned by a blow which only a giant could deliver._

_That brought some rare laughter to the two children's lips...and both suddenly found themselves wondering if it would be so rare from now on._

_"Still," Manon began, somewhat breathless from the hilarity, "I know these people have their secrets. And, yeah, I'm kinda curious what they are. But, I've lived in the workhouse for as long as I can remember. The way those blue-blooded ladies shriek at us for stealing their money? That's what my whole life has been like. Being yelled at, being run off wherever I tried to go, bring told I was worth as little as the dirt under their boots, being unwanted. And, two days ago, I figured it would stay that way. Then, I came here and..."_

_Though Charlotte could not believe it, she swore she saw Manon's eyes glisten as his words trailed away. He promptly wiped away the moisture and Charlotte, aware of the gravity of such a gesture from the otherwise overconfident Manon, pretended not to notice._

_"Then, I came here and I...," he repeated, his words trailing off again. "And, I find myself thinking it could be different."_

_"Me too," Charlotte affirmed, gingerly raising herself to better meet Manon's gaze._

_"So, I think we should let them keep their secrets. We owe them that much."_

_"I think you're right. And, I owe you too. You didn't have to take me with you when you left the workhouse, and you didn't have to help me stay alive. That was very kind of you."_

_Manon, apparently as unaccustomed to praise as he was to compassion, gave a nervous chuckle and tried, ineffectually, to wave away the words._

_"It...it was nothing," he spluttered, well aware of just how greatly he'd contradicted himself._

_"It must've been hard since you must've...liked Francine."_

_Even though she'd clearly seen Manon leave Francine spitting teeth upon discovering the would-be madam grooming her younger ward mates to be sold into prostitution, Charlotte felt a curious ripple of pain when she recalled how Manon must've once felt differently._

_Very differently._

_Again, Manon waved aside her words. But, this time, the gesture had a surprising weight of conviction behind it._

_"No, I didn't like Francine," he said, though he quickly noticed Charlotte's skepticism. "Well, not as much as you might think. Yeah, she was pretty. And, yeah, I kissed her once or twice. But, something about her always felt...wrong. Like there was this cold hand on my shoulder when I was near her. And, when I found out what she was doing, I...I just lost it."_

_That, Charlotte had to admit, was a surprise. Willingness to hazard one's neck for another was a rare trait inside the workhouse..._

_...almost as rare as it was outside the workhouse._

_Still, though a lifetime of betrayal had Charlotte hesitant to take most people at their word, she did trust Manon. And, though the recollection of Manon kissing Francine yet stung somehow, she found that his claims that he hadn't enjoyed it nearly as much as it seemed had helped to ease that strange pain._

_Besides, if anyone knew how to feign pleasure when feeling dread or how to playact confidence while inwardly terrified, it was Manon._

_How could it have been otherwise, when he'd gone through the same hell of abuse and starvation that she had, all while wearing a smile which, though painted, did help arrest the downward slide of Charlotte's sagging spirits?_

_"And, besides," Manon went on, his customary roguishness back in place, "you might be too young to appreciate such things, but Francine's looks weren't all that special."_

_"You squeezed her butt anyway," Charlotte pointed out._

_"Beggars can't be choosers. Besides, Francine's butt has nothin' on Duchess Seymour's. Its round, it's pert, it's tight, it sticks out just enough, and it's warm and smooth against the palm. Before I even let go, I was thinking to myself 'I could get flogged for this, but it'll be worth it!'."_

_Charlotte had been about to make a slew of comments, all of which included several uses of the word "pig", but her jaw fell upon in mute horror when another voice spoke first._

_"You really won't get far with the ladies talking like that."_

_Charlotte could literally feel the color, red and green alike, drain out of her face. Manon, no less horrified, whirled to see Duchess Seymour in the doorway, hands on her hips and her eyes narrowed with displeasure._

_Unnoticed amidst the shenanigans, she had apparently arrived as she'd promised and had been listening in on the children's discussion, and it was clear that she hadn't enjoyed Manon ascribing such delight to his earlier groping of her. Again, Charlotte felt as though she'd been flung back across the current of time, back to the workhouse when she'd been caught in the midst of some infraction. Large or small, none went undetected, and none went unpunished._

_Though the wounds had long since scabbed over, she swore that the burn marks one of the older boys had pressed into her flesh with the hot wax of a burning candle throbbed anew at their imminent expulsion..._

_...except, that didn't happen._

_Duchess Seymour's remonstrative expression suddenly became tinged with perplexity, her brow furrowing as her gaze darted back and forth between the now stricken-looking and shrinking children. Then, after a long moment, her eyes widened and, to the astonishment of the two waifs, she brought up both hands in a conciliatory gesture._

_"Don't be afraid," she urged, somewhat desperately. "I'm not going to hurt you. Still, you really shouldn't be talking about women like that. They don't appreciate it. Well, maybe Lady Alicia and Lady Lavian do, but, believe me, they're in a class by themselves."_

_As Duchess Seymour spoke, her words seemed to degenerate into a frantic babble and her smile, though still broad and bright, suddenly took on a nervous edge..._

_...almost as though she were afraid of frightening the children._

_Their own terror eclipsed by sudden perplexity, the two children stared at each other, dumbfounded. But, when Duchess Seymour saw that the children no longer seemed afraid, she seemed to sag with relief. Before the two children could make sense of why she, a duchess, would be so concerned over the terror of two street waifs, which was nearly as perplexing as her letting them under her roof, Duchess Seymour promptly did them one better when she approached and eyed Charlotte with apparent concern._

_"Are you feeling any better?" she asked. "You're still pretty green."_

_"I...," the bloated girl gasped out, forcing the words past a sudden lump in her throat. "I'm sure I'll feel better in the morning, Duchess Seymour. I just need to sleep, that's all."_

_Duchess Seymour did not immediately reply, but, after a moment's hesitation, she leaned in closer and gave Charlotte a knowing look._

_"It looks like you ate more than you should have. A lot more," she pointed out, causing red and green alike to suffuse the little girl's cheeks once more. "Here, this might help."_

_So saying, she drew back Charlotte's covers and, almost with trepidation, began to knead the taut flesh of the girl's stomach. Both seemed to shrink at the contact but, for reasons she could not make sense of, Charlotte laid one hand on Duchess Seymour's and offered an appreciative smile. Very nearly seeming to have needed the reassurance as much as either of the children, Duchess Seymour blew out a relieved breath and continued her kneading._

_Despite her best efforts, Charlotte winced more than once as the contents of her stomach seemed to shuffle and slosh like one of the cauldrons of brew stirred by witches in her old storybooks. And, apparently, whatever she'd stuffed herself with during that gastronomic blur of an evening was just as volatile as anything that contained eye of newt and toe of frog, wool of bat and tongue of dog. Slowly, stirred by the rubbing, the still-digesting feast began to bubble and gurgle, churning and sloshing with increasing intensity under the taut skin. The groaning and bubbling continued to build, straining for release until..._

_"BRRRRRRAAAAAAPPPPPP!"_

_The long - mortifyingly so, in fact - expulsion of malodorous gas echoed through the room for a stretching second, clearing in plenty of time for Charlotte to see that Duchess Seymour's face had been squarely in the path of the blast..._

_...and that her pretty face was crinkling in disgust._

_Before Charlotte's still slightly green face could blanch again, the duchess brought up one hand to forestall any hysterics and, in a voice that was firm but not unkind, intoned "I'm willing to overlook that once. But, next time, cover your mouth to stifle the noise and say "pardon me" afterward."_

_Again, Charlotte was bemused to have not received a flogging after that, and she was more bemused still when the duchess resumed her task, rubbing and kneading the small girl's bloated belly. Charlotte might've voiced one of the many questions that such unheard-of leniency had provoked, but she was much too busy following the duchess' instructions._

_Suffice to say, she got more than enough practice._

_After the aching in Charlotte's stomach had subsided, along with the belching, Duchess Seymour turned to face Manon, fixing him with a remonstrative look._

_"And you," she began, sharply enough that Manon flinched. "Talking about women like that is going to get you into trouble. Lady Alicia and Lady Lavian might like it, but doing what you do with them to Lady Agrias or Lady Reis? That would upset Lord Drake and Sir Beowulf."_

_As both children had already garnered a healthy respect for Sir Beowulf, neither was keen to test his temper. In fact, the possibility of alienating one of their staunch allies had both recalling that, as a knight who'd served in wartime, Sir Beowulf had likely killed many men and would think nothing of adding more to his tally if they'd harassed his beloved._

_Again, Duchess Seymour's brow crinkled in perplexity, almost as though she sensed the children's lingering dread but could not discern the source. Then, realization struck and she clapped a hand over her mouth, as though to prevent the escape of some illicit words._

_"I shouldn't have phrased it like that," she spluttered. "I'm sorry. Still, it would be best if you didn't talk about women like that. So, I've asked Sir Beowulf to take you on as a student."_

_Manon's dread was forgotten in an instant as his jaw fell open in mingled stupefaction and delight, though Charlotte could not blame him. Like her, Manon had been fond of books while at the workhouse, stealing what private moments he could get lost in the pages so that he might briefly forget his many troubles. Granted, unlike Charlotte, the grownups who'd run the workhouses and then abandoned them after their salaries had stopped being paid hadn't bothered teaching Manon how to read, but she'd more than once caught him staring transfixed at pictures of knights in shining armor atop mighty chocobos clad in splendid barding._

_More than once, he'd said he wanted to be like the knights in those wondrous pictures._

_And now, he just might get his chance._

_"YoumeanIgettolearnhowtobeaknightandrideandjoustandfightwithswords?!"_

_Duchess Seymour, somehow able to make sense out of that jumble of words, gave Manon a knowing look._

_"You'll learn all that," she informed him, and Manon looked ready to burst with glee. "But, you'll also learn how to be a gentleman."_

_That brought Manon up short._

_"There's more to being a knight than being able to stab things," Duchess Seymour said, almost making it sound like a warning. "You'll need to learn how to speak properly, how to treat women politely, how to read and write, and dining etiquette, how to groom yourself, how to hunt, fish, and forage when provisions are low. And, that's on top of how to maintain your weapons and armor, how to care for your mount, how to guard the camp at night, and how to stay awake if you need to stand watch over the camp or castle long into the night."_

_Manon's enthusiasm seemed to flag, the deluge of menial and less-than-thrilling aspects of knighthood taking him by surprise, but this proved to be brief. Soon enough, steely determination filled his young eyes and his customary grin lit up his features._

_"I think I can handle it," he said blithely, though honest confusion crept into his gaze moments later. "But, why would you want me to learn how to be a knight? Why would Sir Beowulf agree to that? I mean, I'm just a-"_

_With a hint of firmness, Duchess Seymour brought up one hand to cut the boy off._

_"Whatever you were going to say, I disagree," she said, brooking no argument. "What happened to you, to both of you, in the workhouse was horrible. I can't even picture it, even though I've seen some suffering in my time. But, I don't want that to define the rest of your lives. Besides, Manon, you showed a lot of courage earlier today. I still don't appreciate you reaching up my skirts, and you'd best not do it again, but the way you protected Charlotte told me, and Sir Beowulf, that you're very brave, that you have a strong sense of loyalty and a moral center...in spite of your...less desirable habits. We both think those ought to be put to use. It'll be hard work, and it won't always be fun. But, ten years from now, I think you'll decide that it was all worth it."_

_Though both children found Duchess Seymour to be more perplexing with every passing moment, it was obvious that Manon's bewilderment was fast giving way to consideration, earnest consideration, at what she was offering him. Not only was there the prospect of a roof over his head, food on his plate, a safe place to sleep at night, and a salary that was his to spend as he pleased, but there was also a chance to truly, well and truly, move above and beyond what he'd been all his life._

_A chance to be someone worthy of respect._

_He looked overwhelmed, and Charlotte could not blame him. But, the question yet remained. And, this time, the children's curiosity could not be restrained._

_"Why?"_

_Charlotte wasn't sure if she'd asked or if Manon had. Maybe they'd both asked. But, regardless, Duchess Seymour's eyes drifted away from their inquiring gazes for a moment and she seemed to need a moment before she could answer._

_"As I said, I saw a lot of suffering during the wars," she said sadly. "For the longest time, there was nothing I could do about it. For Drake, it was even worse. He was out there, fighting for years. He never did enjoy killing, especially when he felt it could've been avoided, and he really hated what those who were left behind had to go through. The hunger, the poverty, the broken families."_

_The duchess's words trailed away at that last statement, and her eyes became distant as though wandering through whatever images of yesteryear had lent such sad strength to her words. Soon enough, however, she shook herself back to awareness and continued._

_"I think that's how I convinced him to let you stay," she went on. "Well, that and how we could use the help. After my brother and Lady Agrias had Rachel, they wanted to make sure that she didn't have to go through what her parents had. And, after hearing about those workhouses, I think we all wanted was to do some good for the next generation."_

_As she spoke, Charlotte noticed that the duchess's hands began to ghost over her stomach and, seized by sudden daring, Charlotte spoke up._

_"Duchess Seymour?" she asked._

_"Please, call me Lady Catherine," the duchess replied. "I'm still getting used to the title. And, technically, it won't even be mine until King Delita gives his final approval."_

_"Lady Catherine, is it true you're having a baby?"_

_The duchess's eyes pulsing wide was almost as good as a resounding affirmative, but that didn't stop Charlotte from drawing in a breath as though fearful she'd crossed some line._

_"Yes," Lady Catherine answered after a long moment of hesitation. "Yes, it is true. I'm guessing you heard in the kitchen earlier?"_

_"Yes. I didn't mean to listen in, I just heard. Is the daddy somewhere in the castle?"_

_"No. He was killed during the War of the Lions. He...he died before I even knew I was with child."_

_"I'm sorry."_

_And, much to Charlotte's surprise, she was. Losing people was hardly something to which she was unaccustomed. After all, the grown-ups who'd run the workhouses had been there for her for a_ time, _but had then vanished without a word once they'd stopped receiving their pay. From time to time, one of the ward mates she'd huddled with in the dark for warmth or protection from the abusive older children would vanish, likely deciding they'd rather take their chances on the street than under the rotting roof of that crumbling den of inequity._

_And then, of course, there had been Francine, who'd once seemed like a friend and then tried to peddle off the young girls who'd trusted her to men of ill repute._

_Losing people to betrayal was something with which Charlotte had had a long and sad acquaintance, but losing someone she had been able to truly trust, and who'd proven worthy of that trust right up until the end, somehow sounded worse._

_Much, much worse._

_It also sounded impossible to envision, for the closest thing that sprang to mind was if Manon had, indeed, been hung after they'd been caught robbing Lady Catherine. And, though even imagining that caused Charlotte's heart to race with dread, she doubted it measured up to what Lady Catherine had gone through._

_Not having much else to offer, but desperately wanting to try nonetheless, she reached out and grasped Lady Catherine's hand in an approximation of a reassuring grip. Manon, after a moment's trepidation, matched her up by clapping a hand on Lady Catherine's shoulder._

_Perhaps the duchess could sense how the two children had been moved by her bereavement, or maybe she'd kept her grief held in abeyance too long and had found a strange catharsis in allowing it to escape the sealed lips behind which it had been imprisoned. Either way, Charlotte felt her hand being squeezed in turn and, when Manon dragged over a chair, the duchess very nearly fell into it._

_"I'm sorry," she spluttered. "I...It's all just been weighing on my mind lately. How much I miss...the father of my baby, how afraid I am of raising our child without him."_

_This too was something that had set Lady Catherine well and truly apart from the other highborn ladies the two children had seen. Though the particulars might've been nebulous to them, they understood well enough that the blue-bloods held appearances near and dear to their hearts, perhaps even more than substance. Losing their temper at two urchins who'd just lightened their pockets was an acceptable lapse in their customary poise, but looking so vulnerable was something very different._

_Just like Lady Catherine was something very different._

_It took her a moment to regain her composure, but she ultimately calmed and gave the two children an appreciative smile. Her smile became perplexed, however, when neither child made a move to release her._

_"Lady Catherine," Charlotte began, with some trepidation at both what she was about to say and how unfamiliar were the sentiments that crested in her heart. "Do you think it would help to talk about it? I noticed that when you talked to Lady Agrias, Lady Alicia, and Lady Lavian that you looked like you felt a bit better."_

_She'd hoped that Manon would take the hint and second the notion, hopefully lending it enough strength to persuade the duchess. And, sure enough, he did not disappoint._

_"Why, what sort of a knight would I be if I walked away from a lady in tears?" he asked, a bit too eagerly for Charlotte's taste. "Please, tell these kind ears your troubles."_

_Between the two children's words and their surprisingly strong grip on her, Lady Catherine relented. Over what felt like hours, she told quite a story. Of how a chance encounter with the Knights Templar had revealed that she and her brother's mercenary activities had, unwittingly, aroused the ire of the Church of Glabados. In the confusion of battle and the deeper confusion of why they had been set upon by the golden armored warriors of the church, Lady Catherine had been taken by a junior officer of Templars._

_The already strange tale then took a more peculiar turn when Lady Catherine told her small audience of how, fearing the only alternatives would either being used as a trump card against her brother or death in the grip of a hangman's noose, she had tried to win her freedom by seducing her captor...only for the trick to well and truly turn when she'd ended up falling in love with him instead._

_"So, he was the daddy?" Charlotte asked as comprehension dawned._

_"Yes," Lady Catherine confirmed, looking a bit less dismal at the notion that such a man had sired her child. "And, despite the...circumstances of how we'd met, I came to care for him a great deal."_

_Here, she paused a bit and regarded Manon with wry amusement._

_"I think that when he was younger he might have looked a lot like you," she said, a hint of something that might, someday, become happy remembrance. "You have his eyes and hair. A bit of his mischievousness too."_

_"Well, you are a woman of taste," Manon quipped, but his face faulted moments later. "Er...a knight wouldn't say that, would he?"_

_"I'll let it slide," Lady Catherine said graciously. "Besides, knights are supposed to be charming, after all."_

_A laugh, small but genuine, parted Lady Catherine's lips as she recounted some of her late lover's more endearing antics and, later, how he'd become charmed by her as well and had been in the midst of entreating his superiors for leniency when tragedy had struck._

_The Horror of Riovanes._

_Though both children soon shared Lady Catherine's bereavement, both could tell that the story had had at least a few oddities. If Duke Seymour and Lady Catherine had ended up in that situation because of a duplicitous employer, then why had they not thrown him under the proverbial carriage in order to secure their escape that much sooner? No less peculiar, she had never mentioned just who this employer might be, what he'd hired them for, and how that had even involved the church, much less raised their ire._

_What's more, the children got the impression that Lady Catherine was holding back quite a bit about her late lover. Though they believed he was a Templar, that he was quite handsome, and that her attempted seduction had become something far different, for neither her words nor gaze wavered at those words, there had been a slight hesitancy when she'd described him as being of humble rank. And, of course, there was his name._

_Edulzi Legnit._

_Lady Catherine must've seen their bewilderment at the name, so she spluttered out that her late lover had been amongst the Ordalian expatriate families that had immigrated to Ivalice well before the Fifty Years War, which would account for how odd the name had sounded to their ears._

_Odd the name did sound, but it sounded all the more peculiar because Lady Catherine's hasty explanation betrayed that this too was questionable, at best._

_All told, the children had received an explanation that was decidedly porous, riddled with unanswered questions and strange details that made little sense. Much of this story was likely a lie..._

_...except for Lady Catherine being pregnant by a Templar, who had been killed in the Riovanes massacre, and whom she missed terribly._

_Perhaps her grief, which was far more genuine that the rest of the tale, had been what had stilled any questions from the children. Maybe it was how this woman was the only one to have shown them kindness and generosity in either of the children's recent memory that quieted their suspicious musings. It might've been each and all, or something else entirely._

_But, in the end, it mattered little. For both children exchanged glances and made a silent accord that, whatever secrets their benefactor was keeping, they would respect her privacy._

_They would also respect her need for a kind ear, kind words, and help to cope with the untimely demise of her baby's father._

_"Drake doesn't want me to raise the baby alone," Lady Catherine went on. "He...well, we both know what that would do to my image, and to my baby. King Delita agrees with him, so the two of them are trying to find me a husband."_

_"Wait, King Delita is going to help you find a husband?!" Manon spluttered, so gobsmacked that the hand he'd laid on the duchess's shoulder went limp and flopped at his side._

_"He's cousin to me and Drake. We grew up alongside him, and his late sister, Teta. Drake fought alongside him against the Corpse Brigade and during the War of the Lions."_

_Here, Lady Catherine paused, a melancholic expression crossing her features._

_"I do miss those days," she said, almost to herself. "And, Teta especially."_

_"How are Duke Seymour and King Delita going to help?" Manon asked. "Are they going to find someone who will adopt the baby?"_

_"We heard that one of the boys from the workhouse had a mommy but no daddy, so he was sent there," Charlotte began explaining. "When the mommy married, her husband said that her son was his son and came back for him."_

_"Drake and King Delita have something...a little different in mind," Lady Catherine admitted, her tone carrying a strange mingling of longing and bitterness, almost as though she found the children's suggestion more appealing than that her brother and cousin had concocted._

_She went on to explain that Duke Seymour and King Delita had worked to gather many an eligible suitor who had a considerable resemblance to the late Edulzi Legnit. It was their hope that she could be introduced, wedded, and bedded to such a suitor quickly enough that he would never realize that her child wasn't his._

_It was obvious, however, that Lady Catherine was not thrilled by the notion. Just the opposite, in fact._

_"It's just so ridiculous!" she groused. "They want me to gamble on finding someone who's stupid enough to fall for that, and then spend the rest of my life with him? And, all in three days? It's absurd! ...but, what choice do I have? Even if I had half a notion of how to raise my baby alone, the scandal would make the rounds for years. I couldn't do that to my baby, or even that idiot brother of mine. But, even if it works, I'd have to lie to my husband and my baby all their lives. I just...I just don't know if I can do this."_

_Again, the two children suspected there was more to the story than had been revealed...but, then again, what they heard, about a child being born into a family sundered by tragedy, had been more than enough._

_It was a tale that bit close to the bone, as it mirrored that of the other children at the workhouse - and, for all Manon and Charlotte knew, their own as well - with eerily correlation._

_So, once more, the two children stilled the many questions that swirled upon the tips of their tongues and instead offered what reassurances they could. Then, after a long, almost mournful pause, Manon suddenly snapped his fingers as though struck by some great epiphany._

_"Lady Catherine!" he exclaimed, only belatedly realizing he was practically screaming. "Sorry. Well, I just remembered something that's been on my mind for a while. You, Duke Seymour, Rad, Ladies Agrias, Alicia, Lavian, and Reis, and Sir Beowulf. Is that everyone who lives here?"_

_After a pause that said nearly as much as the duchess nodding, both Manon and Charlotte regarded her with frank perplexity._

_"Why aren't there more people here?" Manon asked. "This is such a big place, and it must be too big for you to keep up without help."_

_Again, Lady Catherine nodded after a long pause._

_"Why?"_

_Again, Charlotte wasn't sure if she had asked or if Manon had. Maybe it was both, but it mattered little in either case. It was obvious that, whatever the reason, Lady Catherine would not disclose it._

_Both children, who'd studied Lady Catherine's moods and mannerisms during this late night conference, however, could tell that the reason was even weightier than the matter of the duchess's late lover. Her brow was deeply furrowed, her eyes seemed unable to meet those of the children, and there was a distinct trembling in her hands that betrayed deep anxiety._

_The truth of her baby's parentage might have been scandalous, but it almost seemed as though the truth behind why she lived very nearly alone in a supposedly haunted castle was dangerous._

_"It's complicated," Lady Catherine admitted, her grand understatement only fueling the children's curiosity. "But, it won't be that way forever. Soon, perhaps before the baby is born, we'll be able to hire a staff to keep the place up."_

_"But, will people come here?" Charlotte asked, unable to hide her worry that grown-ups who shared the desperate courage of a pair of street waifs might prove scarce. "So many people still think this place is haunted or cursed."_

_"They might come when they know about my brother and_ I _" Lady Catherine answered, though it was obvious that Charlotte's words had raised ill presentiments._

_"I think we can help," Manon spoke up, conviction lending weight to his words. "There are others like us. Children from the workhouses. Some who are still there, some who've left. We know a lot of them, and some of them might want to come and work here."_

_That caught the duchess's attention, for her eyes widened, but then her expression wavered as uncertainty crept in._

_"Please, Milady, hear me out," Manon implored, a nervous smile betraying boyish abashment. "I don't say this a lot. I've never had a reason to. But, you did us a great kindness by letting us stay here, and we want to do something for you. I...I know I can't do anything about how much you miss...the baby's father. But, maybe it would help if there were more people here to help keep the place up."_

_The uncertainty in Lady Catherine's expression wavered slightly, likely as she weighed the need for more hands to clean and maintain the castle against the risk of allowing still more strangers under the same roof that housed her family and her, apparently, volatile secrets._

_But, the children could sense that the balance was beginning to shift, likely as Lady Catherine recalled her lingering pain over all those years of watching suffering and savagery during the wars and being powerless to alleviate it, as well as the lonely prospect of her impending, duplicity riddled marriage._

_Charlotte had also been listening and, though she knew from experience that admitting such to Manon was unwise, she thought his idea was brilliant. The young girl had rarely, if ever, known such kindness as Lady Catherine had shown her, and the desire to repay her had proven as irresistible as it was foreign. Now, however, a solution to that bizarre conundrum had presented itself._

_And so, she lent her voice to Manon's._

_"I think it could help, Lady Catherine," she said earnestly. "Some of the children from the workhouses are good people. There were two of them, Elionwy and Alarca that bandaged my cuts."_

_"There were also these two brothers, Mario and Luigi, who rigged up this mass of pipes, drains, siphons, and pumps to drain away the filth," Manon added. "And Deckard Cain, too. He's the only boy there with a surname, and he's a great storyteller. He would read to the younger children before bed to help them sleep."_

_The balance continued to shift, slowly but surely. Lady Catherine's face, as the two children had discovered, was very open and emotive, and she could no more hide what she felt than open grasslands could hide an army. As they watched, they could see that Lady Catherine found the notion more and more enticing, especially given the likely unappealing alternative. However, a graver question yet weighed upon her as she, assuredly, contemplated the implications of allowing more strangers into her home._

_Ultimately, Lady Catherina posed that very question._

_"Can they be trusted?" she asked, accentuating the urgency with a stroke against her belly._

_A few days ago, the children might've been baffled by such a question. Yet, as they considered their words - about Elionwy and Alarca, and Mario and Luigi, and Deckard Cain and many others - they remembered how, in that dismal place, where most had been keen to survive their abandonment no matter what doing so entailed and where few gave even a passing thought to those who'd been similarly forsaken, there had been those who'd been different._

_Young people who had done what they could, be it small or large, to ease the long days and lonely nights which they shared with other children who, for reasons none understood, had been abandoned by those they'd once trusted to keep them safe and well. Whether it was draining away the filth so that choking stenches and illnesses were not added to the children's copious misfortunes, or bandaging wounds inflicted by such an unforgiving life, or the even less forgiving people with whom they shared it, or reading a story to ragged children so they might have a night's rest where their troubles seemed distant, there had been those who'd done what they could to ease the suffering that characterized such a life._

_Manon and Charlotte had found an escape from that suffering which verged on the fantastical, and perhaps those fellow outcasts who'd kept them alive long enough to find it deserved a chance to do likewise, as did some of those whom Manon and Charlotte had left behind when they'd decided to take their chances on the streets._

_"I trust them," Manon said. "And, I think that, if you and Duke Seymour give them a chance, they won't disappoint."_

_"So do I," Charlotte seconded._

_Lady Catherine fell into a contemplative silence once more. This time, when she returned to awareness, the conflict on her face was gone and a smile, small and subdued but genuine, lit up her features._

_"I think you might be onto something," she admitted. "I'll have to talk it over with Drake, and he might not be easy to convince. But, I think it's worth a try."_

_She paused for a moment before speaking again, and the two children could tell that her next words were meant for another's ears._

_"Who knows? Maybe mother does know what she's doing after all," she mused aloud, caressing her belly, but then gasping a moment later._

_Manon was at her side in an instant, but the duchess held up a hand._

_"I'm alright, the baby's just kicking," she reassured, an unreserved smile finally tugging at the corners of her lips._

_"May I?" Manon asked, somewhat sheepishly._

_"And, me?" Charlotte asked as well._

_The duchess acquiesced and, after what felt like a half hour of feeling the baby squirm and kick beneath their palms, followed by the inevitable debate about whether the baby's kicking revealed it to be a boy or a girl, Lady Catherine pointedly reminded the two children that it was getting late and that they'd need to be rested and alert if they were going to act upon their plan._

_"Lady Catherine?" Charlotte spoke up as the duchess rose to depart. "I think you'll be a great mommy. And, your baby is very lucky."_

_"That goes double for me," Manon affirmed. "Listen, if Duke Seymour agrees, I'll head out the minute my chores are done. A lot of the others have left the workhouses, but I know can find them. Then, Duke Seymour can size them up and make sure he can trust them. Is that alright?"_

_Lady Catherine nodded and, after pecking both children on the forehead, reiterated her desire for them to get some sleep. Charlotte settled back against her pillow and nodded off moments later._

_For the first time in a long time, her sleep was untroubled._

* * *

"You remember, don't you?"

Recalling that night, which seemed many years ago rather than mere weeks, Alma could not help but smile.

"Yes, I remember," she said, feelingly.

Convincing Ramza to accept Manon's plan had not been simple. Indeed, he'd been leery enough about letting Manon and Charlotte under the same roof as his wife, child, and pregnant sister, not to mention the Zodiac Stones. But, as had been the case many a time in their younger years, glassy eyes and a quivering lower lip had been enough to weaken her brother's resistance.

Though, admittedly, Manon and Charlotte did quite well making their own case.

Between these proponents and Ramza's lingering angst over how, for all the lives he had saved from the clawed grip of the Lucavi, there yet remained much suffering in the realm, the Duke of Lionel had ultimately yielded and, however reluctantly, he gave his approval.

But, though this was not the first time Ramza had found himself accepting the word of someone he had little if any cause to trust, his approval did not come cheaply. He had made it doubly clear to Manon and Charlotte that they were not to bring back anyone who could not be trusted around Rachel or her unborn cousin and that, should they do otherwise, such would cost them their place under his roof. Once the children had assented and were off on their search, Ramza had also arranged for his war chest and the Zodiac Stones to be safely hidden away, the latter protected by magical wards that would induce an overpowering sense of fear in anyone who tried to approach...

...including those who'd slain a veritable pantheon of Lucavi demons to obtain them.

Ramza was well acquainted with how the stones could work miracles and horrors, with seeming equanimity, but how and why they chose whether to raise the dead or to make men into monsters yet proved nebulous to the young Beoulve and his friends. And, whatever their capacity to do good, their capacity to work evil was quite evident and most terrible.

Too terrible for Ramza to trust in any mortal hands, including his own.

Still, though Ramza had been leery, as evidenced by his uncharacteristic firmness in warning Manon and Charlotte not to bring back anyone untrustworthy, Alma believed that her decision to vouch for Manon's plan, as well as to argue for him and Charlotte to stay in Lionel Castle, had been one of the best she'd ever made.

* * *

_A week after Manon and Charlotte had begun their recruitment campaign saw Ramza, very nearly slack-jawed, as he witnessed Lionel Castle, once nearly empty and heavy with the dust of neglect, bustling with activity and nearly agleam as long neglect was swept away._

_Manon and Charlotte had brought back half a dozen of their fellow ward mates the first day and, after Ramza and Beowulf had questioned each and all at great length, the newly arrived children were allowed to rest in the servants' quarters before their first day of work began the following morning. The two men had finished with the first six when, seemingly a heartbeat later, twelve more were waiting to be vetted. These too ultimately met with Ramza and Beowulf's approval._

_Still others came, most proving beyond reproach and being set to their tasks and, within days, some three dozen children called the "haunted" Lionel Castle home. Before Ramza's stupefied eyes, groups of children were setting the long table of Lionel Castle's austere dining room, both for the masters of the castle and their own number, while, through the doorway, he could spot at least as many at work in the kitchen. No less amazing, the furnishings had been freshly polished and upholstered and the windows and rafters, once respectively caked with grime and veiled by veritable forests of cobwebs, now looked good as new._

_Seeing this, along with how dumbfounded her brother was, Alma tried not to appear smug._

_She tried to. She really did._

_"Could you please wipe that smirk off your face?" he asked, his tone somewhere between pleading and aggravated._

_"I'm sorry, Drake," she replied, taking care to use his alias in case any of the children strayed within earshot. "I just...well..."_

_Reis had warned Alma that her pregnancy would cause her emotions to run high, and sometimes trace paths that didn't always make sense, and she suspected such might explain why she felt ready to burst out laughing and cry happy tears all at the same time. Regardless, she mastered herself with an effort and turned to face Ramza._

_"I'm sorry," she gushed, sudden self-consciousness flooding over her. "I'm just...just so relieved that it worked out."_

_And, indeed, the seemingly demented proposition had exceeded even her fondest hopes. Though eight adults and thirty six children were still too few to maintain the entire castle, the sudden infusion of so many eager hands had done much to lessen the nigh-overwhelming burden that Ramza and his remaining companions had faced in making a permanent home out of the dismal pile of stone where they'd fought and slain the first of many Lucavi demons. Swaths of the castle yet remained in the grip of neglect, but those areas that the castle's residents would call home, as well as the once desolate grounds, now seemed barely recognizable after the dust and cobwebs had been cleared away and the weeds and brambles uprooted and replaced with flowers and seedlings._

_No less amazing, though Ramza inventoried the group's copious war chest diligently, he repeatedly discovered that not one gil had disappeared without the unlikely staff having earned it first. And, his fears for Rachel had, thankfully, proven needless, that happy point dovetailed when the pair spotted the baby girl crawling away from one of the younger children, both giggling merrily._

_Alma could swear she felt her heart melt in her breast at the sight. And, judging by the way Ramza's eyes glistened, he was similarly affected._

_"I'm glad too," Ramza affirmed, placing a hand on Alma's shoulder. "I was worried at first, but having the extra help has allowed me to spend more time with Agrias and Rachel."_

_"Should you be doing that, with the wedding so close?" Alma asked cheekily._

_"Oh, shut up. Besides, she's been tied up the past few days talking about a wedding feast with Alicia, Lavian, Reis, and Charlotte. Well, I guess that means it'll be just me and Rachel in the meantime. Speaking of which, Rachel! Come to daddy!"_

_The baby girl, her tiny head swiveling in her father's direction, let out a happy gurgle and crawled towards him. Ramza deftly scooped her up and gently pecked her on the forehead, somehow managed to avoid getting slapped by her chubby arms that she flailed merrily._

_"Seriously, Catherine, I owe you," he intoned, his mirth briefly disappearing before he regarded Rachel with a boyish grin. "Rachel, say "thank you" to Auntie Catherine for the new friends."_

_The baby gave out an unintelligible burble, but Alma made a point of curtseying as though she'd received a gracious compliment from the queen herself. Ramza later set the baby back on the ground and allowed the chase to resume, though he watched the spectacle unblinkingly._

_"So, how are you holding up?" he asked, almost in a whisper. "A lot of us were worried that you were taking on more stress than you should be, arguing to take in these children and watching them be vetted. Especially with the baby on the way."_

_"I'm actually feeling better," Alma whispered in reply, a rare contentment descending upon her despite the need for secrecy. "I don't know if it was hearing about the workhouses, or if it was how much Manon looked like Izlude and Charlotte looked like I used to, almost as though they were what Izlude and I might've been if we'd had years instead of days, or if I know what it's like to feel lonely and as though I don't belong. Maybe it was remembering all those years of suffering and just being tired of not being able to do anything about it. It might've been what Reis calls "maternal instinct". Whatever the reason, I felt I had to help them. And, this may sound strange, but the prospect of having my baby seems a bit less terrifying now."_

_"How so?"_

_"For a long time, I was just so scared about having my baby. All I kept thinking was everything I could do wrong. I've seen a lot of people who turned out awful, sometimes because their parents just let them have anything they wanted or because they were never around. And then, there was Teta. Father was always so kind and supportive of her, but that didn't change what everyone else put her through. The idea that any of that could happen to my baby, and that I might end up causing it, just terrified me."_

_Perhaps Ramza had faced down those same fears when Agrias was pregnant with Rachel. Or, more likely, they yet loomed over him since Rachel was but weeks old and many an ill might yet befall that giggling baby girl._

_But, whatever dread and anxiety might haunt Ramza's mind as he worked to make Rachel's future a bright one, he wasn't cowed._

_And, at long last, neither was Alma._

_"Then, I met these children," she went on after a moment spent searching for words. "They'd been starved, neglected, abandoned, and abused. But, somehow, they came to trust me. And, look at them now. They're making an honest living, and that teacher who agreed to come here and tutor them? That'll help these children make a better future for themselves if they want to leave later. I still don't know how I did it; how I got them to trust me or talked you into all this, but I'm glad I did. And, if I can do right by all these children, I think that maybe, just maybe, I can do the same for my baby."_

_Again, Ramza clapped a hand on her shoulder and fraternal pride was writ large on his face._

_"I believe in you," he said simply, though his simple words spoke volumes. "Something I've learned, the hard way, is that the best parents never stop worrying, never stop caring, and never stop asking what they can do better."_

_Here, Ramza paused, a hint of melancholy crossing his features as he blew out a solemn sigh and continued._

_"And, I'll admit, I had other reasons why I wanted this to work out. You know how you said you hated not being able to do anything about all the suffering during the wars? And, how you said you knew I felt the same? Well, you were right. It wasn't just the lives I had to take in battle that bothered me, though. It was everything else too, and knowing that I hadn't the time to stop and do anything about it, not if I want to rescue you, stop the war, and defeat the Lucavi."_

_"Ramza," Alma said, whispering as softly as she could manage. "You saved hundreds of thousands of lives by defeating the Lucavi. Maybe even more."_

_"I know, but the ones I couldn't save still bothered me. I know I stopped a massacre by opening the sluice at Fort Besselat, but I had to kill many Nanten to do that, not to mention those who were too close to the floodwaters to get away."_

_Alma knew Ramza well enough to decide against telling him that Queen Ruvelia drowning in that same flood was a death most unlamented._

_"But, watching all this," Ramza went on, encompassing the castle and its unlikely staff with a sweeping gesture, "makes me feel like I've finally done something that makes a difference in the lives of good people, and a difference I don't have to vacillate over or argue either."_

_"I know what you mean, Ramza. And, seeing some of what these children are dealing with has also helped me to put a face to what my baby might go through. What I'll need to help him or her through. It's almost like it's a bit less scary since I actually have an idea what that can look like. Maybe like that."_

_Alma ended her sentence by pointing to Manon, who was presently sneaking up behind the seated Murry twins, his hands greedily outstretched and angled for their hindquarters. The Beoulve girl cut him off with a thunderous "AHEM" which had him spluttering something about "old time's sake", but he relented when he saw her unflinching gaze._

_"Or that." Alma went on._

_This time, she pointed to Charlotte, who had a pie that looked as though it had been left in the oven a bit too long and the small girl looked poised to dispose of the less-than-presentable fare in her customary fashion._

_And, judging by her heavy breathing and the tightness of her belly, not to mention the faintly greenish tinge about her cheeks, there had been quite a bit of "attrition" in the kitchen this evening._

_Again, a thunderous "AHEM" from the Beoulve girl was enough to stop all mischief cold and, with a few firm words, Alma convinced Charlotte that the pie would prove quite satisfactory, as all of Charlotte's cooking did._

_After all, Charlotte was her own best evidence of this, and Alma had a feeling she might spend another night at the girl's bedside as that ever-bloated and seemingly bottomless stomach turned mutinous under the abuse._

_"I know that some of it will be worse than those shenanigans," Alma went on. "But, seeing it makes it seem less daunting. As though I was looking at this huge shadow and, when I see what's beyond it, it's less frightening...even if it what's casting that shadow is something worth being afraid of."_

_Rambling and convoluted her words might've been, but it seemed that Ramza understood. He smiled, gave an approving nod, and reaffirmed his promise that, if Alma and her baby needed him and Agrias, they'd be there._

_Alma was quick to promise the same to him, her future sister-in-law, and her adorable niece._

* * *

Alma still had her doubts about Ramza and Delita's plan, and greater doubts still that anyone could take Izlude's place at her side. And, even if it did work, her future seemed no less daunting.

But, at least she would not be facing it alone.

She gratefully drew in the children for another hug and, well aware of just how much patience and understanding they'd shown her in return for that which she'd shown them, she decided that their loyalty deserved to be rewarded.

Manon might very well grow up to be a knight and Charlotte a lady-in-waiting, and the pair now had the run of the glittering halls of Lesalia Castle.

Why not make another of their dreams come true while she had the chance?

"The first ball will be very soon," she said. "I'm ready...well, as ready as I'll ever be, and we'd best work fast if you're going to be ready too."

The two children stared up at her, their mingled surprised and delight blunting the melancholy that yet edged her heart.

"You're with the king's cousin, remember?" she asked cheekily, but then allowing studies sincerity seep into her words. "And, you're like family to me. Of course, I want you there."

The children clearly didn't need any convincing, for they cheered wildly, their giddiness only barely restrained when Alma brought up one hand to silence them.

"Now, I think the seamstresses will be ready to make clothes for you," she said firmly. "But, we'll need to set a few rules. First, Manon, the minute I'm done talking, you go to your room and take a bath. And, for the ball itself, you've already learned a fair bit from Sir Beowulf and your teacher about grooming yourself and how to behave in public. Beyond that, Manon, you mind your hands. And, Charlotte, leave some food for the rest of us."

More than a hint of sheepishness was evident as the children's cheeks reddened, but neither offered any complaint. Indeed, they seemed thrilled beyond words at the impending ball.

Alma was thrilled, if only for their sake.

And, though she painted a smile across her features and added what feigned spring she could to her step given her growing child, the prospect of the ball gave her none of the girlish delights it might have in years gone by.

She focused on the joy the children felt, for she could find none in the prospect of choosing a husband from amongst a horde of strangers.


	19. Old Friends Reunite, part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Falchion1984: Again, I would like to thank Bluefelt, whose advice on this chapter proved valuable when the going got tough, and the scarcity of time to write made the process all the more frustrating. Thank you again for your help.

"Who is Duke Drake Seymour?"

"Who is Duke Drake Seymour?"

"Who is Duke Drake Seymour?"

"Who is Duke Drake Seymour?"

Whether one traveled amongst the rocky hills of Lionel, the windflats of Favoham, or the glittering streets of Lesalia, that was the question one was likely to hear many a time from many a person.

The sheer number of people who were curious about this particular subject was matched only by how his sudden appearance had inflamed curiosity regarding the hitherto unknown man who would soon be ruling Lionel. That he was the cousin of the newly crowned King Delita was a well-known fact, even though more than a few of the king's close advisers had no idea such a relative existed until quite recently. It was known he'd served with distinction as a mercenary, and not only because tales of his exploits had begun to spring up in such quantities, but because of the many exotic trophies he had won in his battles. The newly rebuilt Royal Museum in Lesalia had had to open an entire additional wing in order to house the many lost artifacts that had been sold or donated by the young duke. These included such fascinating pieces as the Statuette of Lilith, the Coin Blade, the Henya Mask, the Black Materia, the Orb of Minwu, and the Chocobo Cannon. Each and every such wonder of antiquity astonished all who wandered through the trove of this masterful adventurer and treasure hunter.

Given how much the museum reportedly paid for these relics of bygone eras, and that nearly a third of them had been donated, it could also be readily construed that Duke Seymour was likely a man of considerable wealth. That he'd reportedly been of low birth had, if anything, made his story all the more remarkable. As earth shattering as a peasant king was, a humble adventurer winning not only the title of duke but also amassing the wealth to go with it - and by earning it through his wits and sword arm rather than inheriting it, no less - had caused the flames of ambition to rise all the higher in those of low birth who now sought a better life than their forbearers had known. Even those of high birth were not immune. Those who had lost their fortunes to the war, and had kept themselves from sinking into despair by stubborn pride alone, had seen in Duke Seymour's achievements cause to hope that their newfound poverty might prove brief.

Much like King Delita himself, Duke Seymour soon became an object of admiration for Ivalicians of all descriptions. And, whether it was his exploits as an adventurer, the derring-do that had won him the wondrous artifacts that now overflowed the museum, how endearingly amusing was the clash between his mustache and his babyish face, the exotic crimson of his hair, or the halfhearted lamentations that he was already married, everyone was talking about him.

His sister, however, had also come up quite often as well.

Catherine Seymour was reportedly a woman of great beauty. Young, but well formed, and with crimson tresses woven into silken braids that framed her breasts and teased at her backside enough to make any man feel...attentive. What's more, she was known to possess a generosity of spirit that would have brought happy tears to the eye of anyone sympathetic to the needs of the poor.

Though speculation as to who bore the blame for the Lionel workhouses failing yet ran rampant, that bleak topic had been turned on its head when news got out that Duchess Seymour had reportedly taken on several dozen of the abandoned children, giving them jobs keeping up and guarding the castle. She had even arranged for them to be schooled in the event they chose to make their own futures elsewhere.

And, as if that hadn't been impressive enough, the first of these many wards had been a pair of onetime ragamuffins who'd been caught in the act of trying to rob her.

There were those who'd briefly suspected that Duchess Seymour was jeopardizing her newfound fortune by allowing street waifs to make their home in Lionel Castle at all, let alone in such numbers. Yet, these astonishments reached new heights when it became apparent that not only were the former ragamuffins not taking so much as a gil more than they'd earned, but that they had proven themselves trustworthy enough that Duke Seymour had even allowed the first of their number - the two who'd tried to rob his sister, no less - to accompany her as her personal attendants.

In a land long since jaded by the horrors that humans can inflict upon each other, sometimes without remorse and sometimes even without reason, more than one eye became moist at the notion of a woman who could not only see the good in her fellows but who could also draw it out, nurture it, and enable it to flourish in even the most unlikely souls.

Where could one find a better woman to mother one's children and oversee the household than a woman who might, some claimed, be considered for canonization by the Church of Glabados in the future?

When it was learned that there would soon be a succession of balls wherein Duchess Seymour would be introduced to the Ivalician public, including many an eligible bachelor, the fervor over the enigmatic red-haired siblings reached a nigh feverish pitch. From hither and yon, men of high station and those self-made men of humble birth who had risen to affluence, descended upon Lesalia in droves, sending the local inns, tailor's shops, and jewelers into a whirlwind of activity. Rooms were booked until the city seemed near to bursting with visitors, fine suits and pieces of fine jewelry were purchased by the dozen, and bank notes emblazoned with the new king's impressive profile changed hands four times for every heartbeat.

And, beat hearts did. Quite thunderously too.

Some hoped to claim the fair lady's hand before the days of celebration were done, others would've been elated if they could at least urge their suit in the hopes that she might see fit to wed at a later date, and many would've been content to simply know what this budding legend of a woman looked like.

In all the excitement, so many questions were being asked about how best to entice her to accept a gentleman's hand and what manner of man she would find acceptable. Others pondered what words and adornments might make them stand out from the hordes which would doubtless vie for her. Still, others pondered whether the lucky man would also inherit the duchess's two attendant former ragamuffins, as any attempt by Lesalia Castle's staff to remove them had been firmly rebuffed.

What went un-pondered, however, was a question so obvious that all failed to see it just as one could fail to see the forest for the trees.

Quite a tale had been told and retold of how alluring Duchess Seymour was. King Delita had injected nearly as much pomp and pageantry into the balls that would introduce his lovely cousin as he'd injected into his own coronation, and interest in the galas was inflamed all the more by the profusion of young boys holding aloft editions of the newly christened _Lesalia Time_ s and urging all within earshot to "read all about it". The implication that a husband was sought after had not been refuted nor even contested, but instead permitted to flourish and was subtly embellished. And, all were so swept up that they never considered the most fundamental of questions.

"Why?"

 _Why_ was King Delita lavishing such effort upon his cousin's debut on the social stage? _Why_ was her tale so widespread that every man who ever sought a wife was descending upon Lesalia in a veritable avalanche of bachelors? _Why_ was there such veiled urgency that Duchess Seymour marry when, at barely twenty winters, she could have any man she chose at any time?

But, as was aforementioned, these questions went un-pondered. Instead, a fevered refrain had well and truly seized everyone's mind.

"Who is Duke Drake Seymour?"

"Who is Duchess Catherine Seymour?"

"Who is Duke Drake Seymour?"

"Who is Duchess Catherine Seymour?"

Asked these questions were, again and again, until, after many an eternal day steeped in anticipation, the day arrived when answers might be found at long last.

* * *

As was the case with seemingly everywhere else in Lesalia, the ballroom of Lesalia Castle roiled with the relentless flow, perusal, and exchange of the city's leading commodity.

Gossip.

Speculations still as fresh in the mind as they were days before yet made the rounds, with ever more fanciful conjectures being woven about the Duke and Duchess of Lionel. Bandied about were rumors and wild guesses about their origins, dispositions, and who was a likely contender for the latter's hand, all steadily growing more ridiculous and yet lapped up all the more eagerly in a city where gossip was imbibed more than fine wine. This particular gossip, however, was little more than a means to pass those final agonizing seconds before, at long last, the trumpeters blew out a quick succession of blaring notes that stilled every tongue. Turning, the various guests beheld a dark haired man in the vestments of high office standing at the top of a broad, carpeted staircase typically used to allow the royal family and their honored guests to make an entrance from a commanding position. Knowing what must be imminent, all drew in a breath.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the Ivalician Court, as your humble chancellor, I, Olan Durai, am pleased and honored to present to all of you Her Grace, Lady Catherine Seymour, the Duchess of Lionel!"

The already expectant hush that had fallen over the elegantly decorated ballroom of Lesalia Castle became charged with expectation as Olan gave a formal bow to the young woman who emerged moments later. Once the young woman stood fully in view, eyes pulsed wide and lips were parted in strangled gasps of stupefaction and sighs of envy alike.

Tales and songs of Lady Catherine's beauty fell utterly short.

Lady Catherine descended the stairs with a swanlike grace, clad in an elegant scarlet dress with intricate gold designs befitting of a lady of her stature, rustling in gentle, crimson ripples as she seemingly glided down the stairs. The blood red hue of her dress found a ready compliment in the inviting tint of her rosy cheeks and her lush coils of red hair. A rarity in Ivalice, and a marvel to behold on so fair a lady, the long tresses were woven into a trio of elegant braids, one of which teased at the small of her back and the other two cascaded over either shoulder to frame her generous breasts.

Her sky blue eyes and high elegant cheekbones, not to mention her plump lips, had a seeming infinity of eyes agape, some belonging to men who were already all aflame with wishes to make this angel theirs, others belonging to women who were quietly incredulous at how she outshone them all, and still others who privately wondered if all the pomp and pageantry invested into this ball by King Delita had been sufficient.

Whether from amazement, desire, infatuation, or envy, all were immediately enchanted by the beautiful young woman who descended like a scarlet angel into their midst.

* * *

Despite feeling like every pair of eyes in the world alighted upon her, Alma managed to remain calm.

Just how she managed it, she had no idea. But, she was certain it had been a near thing in any case as she tried to exude a confidence she did not feel with every step.

Even as a noblewoman, Alma was not used to being the object of so much attention. And, that phrasing seemed all the more poignant. Though it was no secret to Alma that she was quite attractive, and more than a few had told her so, she had never had such conveyed via the thunderous silence of an entire room full of people looking in her direction and keen to catch flies in their gaping jaws.

She'd known young women who would've enjoyed such attention, and even some who'd received it with great relish, but she could already tell that she was not one of them.

Alma had lived most of her early life at Igros Castle during the waning years of the Fifty Years War, when the time, money, food, guests, and inclination for such celebrations as this were all scarce and her most predominant company was her family's servants. After that, she'd lived in the isolation of a monastery surrounded by monks whose every breath was devoted to quiet lives of piety, chastity, and poverty in the service of the Father. In all that time, Alma had never garnered even a fraction of the attention that now seemed to loom all around her.

Especially not from such an audience as this.

Filling the ballroom, seemingly to the brim, was an enormous gathering of people of status. Some were surviving nobles, not all of which had backed "cousin" Delita's claim to the throne until after his victory was incontrovertible. Some of these were still men of wealth and some were rebuilding their fortunes and likely had their eye on "Lady Catherine's" dowry as much as they did on the lady herself. In addition, there was also a multitude of well-to-do common folk, some being powerful merchants, others bosses of the various guilds that had cropped up as Delita's decrees had transformed Ivalice's economy into one where petty grudges between those on high and tariffs predating Saint Ajora no longer hobbled production or sales of goods. This had allowed many of modest origins to chisel out handholds by which to climb their way above their births and attain the sort of wealth and prestige that, only a few short years beforehand, was the stuff of unobtainable dreams. The notion of a commoner, well-to-do or otherwise, marrying a noble had gone from unheard-of to novel, with a small but growing list of couples who'd flouted the former convention. Undoubtedly, there were many present who'd been eager to add their name to that particular list before seeing Lady Catherine, and the sight of her had ambitions and passions alike roaring in many a young man's breast. Still others amongst the throng were knights, squires, and other officers in the king's newly formed Order of the Chimera. There were even a few men of distinctly Ordalian and Romandan origins, as yet another of Delita's successes had been coaxing Ivalice's onetime enemies to attend the ball in the hopes that such would prove a first step towards reestablishing diplomatic ties. And, judging by the way their eyes were following her, Delita would soon have yet another feather in his cap and Alma several more candidates for her hand.

In short, all were young men who, wherever they'd come from, sought to raise their status in society by winning the hand of a beautiful and wealthy duchess.

True, many of them regarded her with amorous expressions, but she had learned much about the differences between love and infatuation.

And, the foremost was that, after having experienced the former, the latter was a poor substitute.

Letting her eyes roam the ballroom, the first thing the disguised duchess noticed was that the majority of the young men seeking her hand were dark-haired with only a handful of blondes and a few of the rare Ivalician redheads. Not that this came as much of a surprise, though. Before the ball, Ramza had made sure to remind Alma that there was a slim chance of her own child, whom he'd hoped to pass off as the child of whomever claimed her hand from amongst these young contenders, being born blonde. Reis had tried to explain the logic behind it, saying that such was unlikely since the father was a brunette, and the babies Reis had delivered showed a clear pattern when either parent sported dark tresses. As such, both her brother and the dragonkin believed that it was best for her to choose a dark-haired husband to avoid unbecoming rumors about the baby's paternity. If the child was born blonde, however, Ramza had suggested a contingency plan where she could still attribute it to her own mother, who was a natural blonde.

 _A contingency plan for a plan which was absurd enough to begin with!_ Alma mused uncharitably. _Brother Ramza, how you survived the war, let alone slew a veritable pantheon of Lucavi demons, I'll never know._

If Alma had found the notion of choosing a husband, a man she would supposedly spend the rest of her life with, solely on the color of his hair or eyes, to be absurd in theory, she found it utterly ridiculous now that she was here and trying to make it happen. Granted, she would prefer to avoid answering unwanted inquiries as to the paternity of her child if he or she happen to bear no resemblance to the "father", her new husband, but she knew those were long odds.

Even if the child was born with dark tresses, like his or her "father", and shared Alma's blue eyes, or even if the child was blonde and Ramza's "contingency plan" actually worked, who could say that would be the end of the matter? Suppose her would-be husband nonetheless saw something else that had him second-guessing that he had sired the child? No less disconcerting, even if neither the child nor the supposed father knew or even suspected the truth, what if it came between them nonetheless?

Alma had long known that Dycedarg had never approved of Balbanes's second wife, and liked the children she'd birthed even less. Zalbag had made a sincere effort, roughhousing with her when she was younger, doting on her even as she became a woman, and jokingly asking if there were any young men in her life whom he needed to sit down with and have "the talk". But, though she was glad that Zalbag cared for her as much as he did, she also knew that their being born of two different women nonetheless created a distance between them that simply did not exist between her and Ramza. Between her and Zalbag had been a gauzy veil, concealing what there could be between them and revealing only enough to know that there was a disparity between that which was and that which could have been.

After Teta's death, and how Zalbag apparently considered it a "necessary sacrifice" to finally crush the Corpse Brigade, that veil had caught fire and warded the two half-siblings from each other. Her passion for the sanctity of life and his sense of uncompromising duty each became a conflagration that grew dangerous when one was allowed to stray too close to the other.

Though Zalbag had never been able to admit it to her directly, and though Ramza had been pointedly closemouthed about just how he'd died, he'd told Alma of Zalbag using his dying breath to urge Ramza to rescue her at any cost. That might very well have meant that he'd forgiven her. Perhaps that he'd done so long ago.

At times, Alma hated herself for never having forgiven him in turn.

Between herself and Dycedarg, by contrast, had been, at times, either a layer of ice that warded away intrusion with clouds of repulsing frigidness or a thunderhead that promised danger or even injury when the unwanted strayed too close.

And, that was before she'd found out that Dycedarg had broken his promise to rescue Teta, that he had been the architect of Ovelia's kidnapping, which would have become an assassination had his plans not been thwarted, and that he'd been amongst those who'd ignited the War of the Lions in a mad scheme for power.

What if the same happened between her child and her husband? Even if neither realized the truth, it would still be there. Would it create the sort of distance between them that had existed between her and Zalbag, even though both had tried to reach out to the other often and earnestly? Worse, would one or the other realize the truth in its entirety and resent the other, and perhaps her as well, and thus cause the family she'd sought to raise in Izlude's memory to become ensconced in ice fit to make the unlamented Dycedarg shiver in his grave?

And, of course, that was discounting the possibility that, if her "husband" learned the truth, he might allow it to escape into the streets of Lesalia, a place that reacted to scandal much the way kegs of gunpowder reacted to stray sparks.

That analogy - and, with it, the reminder of Teta's death - caused the mask of cordiality that Alma wore to shudder, but she narrowly managed to get it back in place before anyone noticed.

As she idly mingled about the ball, making light conversation with men who eyed her in a fashion too reminiscent of how men on the hunt eyed a twenty-seven point buck, she found herself entertaining the notion of abandoning this absurd plan and raising the baby herself.

Granted, neither Ramza nor Delita would be pleased to see all their efforts go to waste, and both would object strenuously. But, for the moment, Alma frankly didn't care. Whatever idle fantasies she'd had about balls and galas had well and truly soured when she'd sensed all these men, some of which looked barely older than Manon and others who must've been anywhere from ten to twenty years her senior, eyeing her like a cut of prime rib, not to mention all the women eying her enviously. And all of that was on top of how her being here in the first place was based on a plan which was, to put it charitably, dubious.

Alma knew that, even if she did meet a fine man to be the father of her child, and even if she could stomach lying to him and her baby all their lives, her husband would never replace the man whose bride she should have been.

If only Izlude were here.

She may have told Annie that she was here to make sure that she did what Izlude would have wanted if he'd known that their love would be cut so tragically short, and Annie had affirmed that Alma had to do what she had to for the happiness of her child and herself, but she was suddenly second-guessing whether playing along with this charade would accomplish that.

What good would it do to pick a husband only for him to realize the truth and their marriage, which was already founded on a lie, became all the more tainted? What good would it do to have a man to raise her baby if either he resented the child for being sired by another man or the child resented the man who stood in for his or her true father? Or both.

Alma might fumble for a time, but might she fare better raising her baby by herself?

It would be trying, but hardly impossible, especially since any of the men who'd live alongside her baby would likely prove a better influence than those assembled before her. Even Rad, for all his skirt chasing and lasciviousness, was possessed of a strong sense of loyalty that a knight could be impressed with. And, though Lesalian gossip was as ubiquitous and inevitable as birds flying in the sky, it was her business, not that of some gossiping city folk, how she raised her child.

However, unlike commoners whose days were usually consumed with work to put food on their table and keep a roof over their heads, the nobility had a tendency to mind anyone's business but their own. And, if anyone present sniffed out that she was already with child, whole towns would learn between heartbeats. Personally, Alma could care less if any of her fellow noblewomen had a child out of wedlock or who the father was. But, unfortunately, not all ladies of status shared her opinions. As Agrias herself had warned, social slips in the glittering heart of Ivalice would be told and retold for months on end...and there were few slips bigger than a young, unwed noblewoman being found to be with child.

Even when she was still a student attending an aristocratic school, Alma preferred spending time with Teta rather than gossiping about what she considered "stupid things" with her other female classmates. Still, she knew that as vitriolic and derisive as their words towards and about Teta had been, their treatment had been even worse towards those amongst their number who'd fallen pregnant when the occasional nightly dalliances behind the faculty's backs had gotten out of hand.

So, her choices boiled down to whether to gamble her child's happiness in a life of living a lie or in a life of ignominy for being born out of wedlock.

Both choices seemed so hideous, especially when it was only a tragic and cruel whimsy of fate that had placed such a choice before her in the first place.

If only Izlude were here.

Even though Alma tried to appear confident, she could sense that Queen Ovelia, who knew her very well, was eyeing her intently and could sense her unease as surely as if she'd shouted it aloud. The young Queen was also mingling amongst the guests, receiving compliments and chaste kisses upon the hand, seeing that her guests' needs were met, and making scintillating conversation, all while wearing a broad smile upon her face...

...a smile that was as painted as Alma's.

Ovelia might have learned well enough how to fool a roomful of strangers, though Alma didn't dare contemplate the how, where, or why. But, it was plain that something had the young queen deeply troubled. Apart from how she had greeted "Drake Seymour" and his entourage alone, and the desperation behind how she'd hugged them, there was also the telling distance she'd kept from her husband, the new King of Ivalice, Delita Hyral the First. Delita himself, who Alma had not seen or spoken to since the "Seymours" had been born, watched the festivities in a brooding silence and wore an expression eerily reminiscent of that he'd worn in the aftermath of Teta's abduction.

As though something precious beyond measure to him was poised to slip from his grasp forever...or, had done so already.

Ramza and Agrias had suspected that the slums still standing, even after they'd been emptied, the gates to Lesalia having never been rebuilt, and Delita's conspicuous absence during the arrival of the "Seymours" had meant something was wrong. And now, Alma feared that it might be worse than even her brother and sister-in-law had feared. What it might be, however, Alma had no idea nor time to ponder, as Chancellor Durai introduced the first suitor to "Duchess Catherine Seymour".

When Alma bothered to notice, she beheld a comely young man, likely one who'd earned his wealth rather than been born into it, judging by how he hastily tried to smooth out the rougher parts of his speech in midsentence. Still, the tale he'd drawled was one she might've found fascinating had she been able to give him more attention than she could presently muster. Apparently, this man had earned his fortune as one of an organization of blockade runners, who would use small barques to ply Ivalician waters by night, slipping into port and offloading food rations which would be sold to distressed peoples on both sides of the War of the Lions.

This man was amongst the senior members of the organization, and was so great an admirer of the late Balbanes Beoulve, who might've joined in their operation had he lived, that he'd insisted they call themselves "Balbanes' Cubs".

The irony hit Alma like a slap on the mouth.

Still, though the young suitor was not bad to look at, Alma could not bring herself to even feign interest in him even though she accepted his invitation to dance out of courtesy. The gifts he offered, though his pride in their lavishness was obvious, weren't anything she hadn't had before her family's wealth was lost to her or what Ramza himself didn't have, given his new wealth as the Duke of Lionel and a legendary discoverer of lost treasures. The Beoulve girl may have every material comfort and luxury anyone could ask for if she accepted this man's suit, but she still found it so hard to even smile at her young suitor for his kindness.

Wealthy and attractive he was, and brave and generous of spirit he must've been to smuggle food to people starving from the warring dukes' negligence when discovery by either would mean certain death.

Ramza would've been relieved beyond words if Alma decided she would have him.

Had Zalbag lived, he would've taken great joy in having "the talk" in order to jokingly try and intimidate this man before shaking his hand and calling him "brother".

Had her father lived, he would've been much honored by this man's choice of names for their band of blockade runners and honored all the more that there were people who still cared enough for what he'd stood for to hazard life and limb for it.

Yet, for all this man's merits, he was not Izlude.

None of them were.

And, the gaping chasm he'd left in her heart was so beyond any of their ability to fill, that Alma could not even bring herself to let them try.

* * *

So enchanted were the ball's attendants by Alma that they approached her brother only sporadically. And, that suited Ramza just fine.

If any of them got too close, the frustrated duke might forgo the urge to tear out his own hair and tear theirs out instead.

As the evening wore on, Ramza watched with exasperation as his sister was introduced to and danced with one suitor after another, but took a shine to none of them. It didn't take an astrologer divining portents from the heavens to know that Alma clearly wasn't interested in any her suitors, even the ones who were equally as attractive as Izlude and, more to the point, looked like they might pass as the father of Alma's baby. Yet, though Ramza had been crossing his fingers and even his toes at every introduction Alma received, it looked as though she was struggling to even look any of the young men in the eye as they danced.

Her mind was obviously elsewhere, wandering through what-might-have-been.

Ramza ground his teeth together, trying not to scream at his sister's obstinacy as yet another suitor parted company with her, clearly nursing a bruised ego. He inwardly fumed, all too aware of how time was slipping away just as surely as Alma was allowing one promising suitor after another to slip through her fingers.

He could understand Alma's reticence, and could even sympathize since he shuddered to contemplate what he would've gone through had he lost Agrias or Rachel during the war, and had come close to doing both much too often. But, while Alma was lost in her grief, her time to do right by her child, before he or she was indelibly marked as a bastard, was vanishing like sand through a sieve. He glanced in Delita's direction, vainly hoping that the combined efforts of both men might dislodge the Beoulve girl from her stubbornness, but the king continued to lurk on his throne, his expression perfectly blank and barely seeming to notice how his efforts in so hastily arranging so extravagant a ball were going to waste.

As Ramza had discovered, Alma was not the only one who'd been lost in reveries of grief lately.

 _As if I didn't have enough to worry about as-is!_ he inwardly snarled.

On top of everything else, Ramza's investigation into the oddities he'd observed while entering Lesalia had yielded far more than he'd bargained for. After some twenty minutes of fruitless searching and inquiring amongst castle servants who knew as little as he did, he had chanced upon his longtime friend as he'd lurched, almost drunkenly, to a broad expanse of balcony near the roof of the castle, typically reserved for evenings spent looking up at the stars and nestling in the arms of loved ones. But, Delita wasn't out to admire the stars. The first hint was when he'd produced a bottle of fine wine from his cloak and drained it seemingly in a single gulp.

The second hint was when he'd tried to hurl himself toward the cobblestones far below.

Ramza had only barely managed to intercept Delita's fateful plunge, grabbing him by the belt and hoisting him back onto firmer ground. But his old friend struggled, with drunken clumsiness, but struggled nonetheless, to break free and finish what he'd started. Ramza had managed to restrain him more effectively and, once Delita saw that his egress from the mortal coil was barred, he'd began to sob brokenheartedly.

In a rare but welcome stroke of luck, the only other people aware of these developments were Agrias, Beowulf, and Reis, who'd raced to join him and, at his direction, acquired a sleeping draught to put the king under. Delita awoke the following day to find his old friend standing vigil over him and uncharacteristically resistant to placations and diversions.

After that, perhaps because of lingering drunkenness and speaking in a dry, scratchy voice, he had confessed all.

How he'd belatedly discovered how his machinations to isolate and then assassinate Goltana, and frame Orlandu for the deed, had caused Ovelia to fear him.

How he, in a moment of supremely cold calculation, had contemplated killing Ovelia so that she might not expose the tarnish that so discolored his golden legacy.

How he had taken the hard lesson deceit from Dycedarg - "learning from the best", he called it with mirthless humor - in order to beguile the Hokuten, the Nanten, and the Church alike into believing him an obedient servant when, in actuality, he was chivvying each and all towards a cliff. And, when the moment had come, when his sowing of murder and mistrust had left each and all isolated, he had run them through the back and tossed them over the edge.

How he had exploited Olan's sense of honor by leveraging the new and floundering High Confessor into recanting his predecessor's allegations against Orlandu, knowing that such a gesture, though it cost Delita nothing and had no bearing on any save the Thunder God's son, would bind Olan to the king's service with shackles colder and more immutable than any forged by man.

How he had unearthed magics unholy by any standard while in service of the church and used them to make a bondservant of the witch Balmafula, compelling her to feign her role of spying on Delita for the church when, in fact, the reverse was true, and tempered the steel in her chains with a curse that would strip her of her voice if she so much as uttered a word that went against Delita's wishes.

How he had professed to be helping the people of Ivalice to rebuild their lives when, in having left the shanty towns standing after he'd emptied and having left in ruins the city gates he might as well have smashed down himself, he was allowing some of the worst wounds of the war to linger, unhealed, while he gazed at each and all as though admiring the favorite trophies from amongst a perverse collection.

And how, in a starburst of clarity, everything he had done - not just to his enemies but to Ramza who he professed to call a friend, to Ovelia whom he professed to love, to the people of Ivalice whom he professed to be fighting for, and to the memory of Teta whose name he had invoked as his cause and justification for all the blood he had spilled through action and inaction alike - had all crashed down upon him at once with such a weight as though the very castle he now ruled had been pulled up from its foundations and dropped on top of it.

Once bound, gagged, and forgotten, his vengeful conscience and his copious demons were now a weight poised to crush Delita into pulp.

Behind that blank mask of disinterest that he now wore was a man who was slowly but surely losing his mind.

Ramza gnashed his teeth, hoping that the concoction Reis had forcibly fed Delita would arrest his downward spiral long enough for a more permanent solution to be found.

Yet, as horrifying as it was to find the once strong and vibrant man whom he'd called friend reduced to a shell so tormented by his own guilt that he sought to end it on the tip of a blade or in a bottle of poison, and how tragic it would be for Delita to succeed in killing himself when such might succeed in undoing Ivalice where the War of the Lions had failed, even all that wasn't the worst of it.

What if the still missing Pisces Stone crossed Delita's doorstep while he was in this state?

Before, Delita had been strong of body and constitution, keen of intellect and sharp of wits, and able to discern plots as easily as he could devise them. He could have, would have, and already had recognized soft spoken words meant to entice him into being the servant of another, and he'd burned with a passion to make sure such words would be deflected and those who spoke them broken. But now, with his mind consumed by guilt at what he'd done and grief that his callous machinations had turned his own wife against him, what more could the stone ask for in a host?

It could offer him power by which to redeem himself, or even to bend time to his will in a manner that would've prevented Teta's death and, with it, his slide into depravity, or any other false promises it took to lure a broken man into the clawed embrace of a Lucavi demon. And, if successful, then a Lucavi demon would occupy the throne, poised to succeed where Altima had failed.

A more lasting solution was needed, but what that might be eluded Ramza's overburdened mind.

Relying on Reis's concoctions would not avail them for long, as they were designed to combat the emotional fragility in certain women following childbirth. The dragonkin could not even be certain if they would work on a man. And, even if they did, taking them over long periods would more likely mean addiction than mending.

The irony of it all burned at the back of his throat. Many a time, Ramza had hoped that the Delita he had known - the Delita who yet had a moral compass, who would recoil at such villainy as gaining the trust of others only to stab them in the back once their usefulness to him had ended, and who could care for another without thought of personal gain - might still be behind that mask of Machiavellian calculation, waiting for the facade of the cruel schemer to crumble away.

And, crumble it did, leaving behind a quivering mass of a man paralyzed with self-recrimination in the place of the king he could be, and who Ivalice so badly needed.

Even though this also meant that the Delita who Ramza had known truly was still in there, that his old friend had not sold his conscience and his soul for the crown he now wore, it was a cold comfort when weighed against what might be lost if his compromised state was detected and, once again, would-be successors began to clash over the throne.

Yet, even that was not the end of it. There was still the matter of Meliadoul.

Ramza had been tickled pink when he'd received the letter from a giddy Mustadio, whose joyfully jumbled scrawl had proclaimed that he had convinced Meliadoul to attend the ball. Suspecting that the young Machinist saw the Divine Knight as far more than simply a friend and comrade-in-arms, Ramza had shared the story with those of his companions who yet lived under his roof and wrote back, expressing his delight and his anticipation of seeing them again.

Once his delight had cooled, however, Ramza realized that this meant that Meliadoul would be attending the very same balls which, hopefully, would see Alma with a prospective husband on her arm.

Though Alma and Meliadoul had barely exchanged a dozen words following the final victory over the High Seraph, the Divine Knight knew that the Beoulve girl had been Izlude's prisoner for a time. If she saw Alma, realized that she was pregnant, and gleaned by whom, Ramza shuddered to envision the consequences.

Oh, granted, Mustadio's account of Meliadoul's manic training and what she'd done to her training dummy had caused a vivid picture to form in his mind for the what the Divine Knight would do to him. But, the threat of physical harm to Ramza's person was well and truly dwarfed by the threat Meliadoul might pose to the secrecy of the duke's plan.

Granted, he had planned to tell Meliadoul that Alma carried her late brother's child. But, Meliadoul had departed the company before Alma even knew she was pregnant. And, though Ramza knew he'd have to tell her eventually, he had hoped it would be in a setting where he could calm her and secure her oath of secrecy.

Suppose she gleaned the truth and, in a fit of anger, exposed Alma's pregnancy in public?

 _Of all the times for Delita to rediscover his conscience and Mustadio to muster the stones to try and tell Meliadoul how he feels about her, it just had to be now!_ he screamed in his mind.

Had a Lucavi demon suddenly materialized in the room spoiling for a fight, Ramza might've considered it a relief.

* * *

Mustache or no, Ramza had the face of a boy.

And, as his wife well knew, his face was so emotive that he might as well have taken a piece of charcoal and written his very thoughts upon his forehead.

Agrias, who stood beside Ramza with their daughter in her arms, quickly noticed her husband's unease. Fearing that somebody else might, and raise awkward questions about why Drake Seymour was alternately glowering at his sister and "cousin" as though he wanted to rip their heads off, she quickly prodded him with her elbow. Startled from his reverie, he turned in her direction to see the warning glance she fixed him with, and quickly painted on an expression of casual inattention to the pomp before him.

"Sorry about that," he said quietly. "It's just...it's so frustrating. Any day now, it'll be obvious that Alma is with child. I don't like the idea of having to marry her off to a stranger, but I...I know what happens to girls in her situation when they get found out. I just don't want that to happen to my baby sister, or my niece or nephew."

The holy knight couldn't help but give a smile. A frustrated smile, but a smile nonetheless. One of Ramza's most endearing traits was how much he cared for others. While there was no shortage of commanders who viewed their troops as simple tools, each valuable in their own way but all expendable when weighed against the mission, Ramza was the very opposite. He had, quite often, delayed his overall mission and hazarded his own life in order to save his friends, and sometimes even strangers in need.

Aside from how he'd charged headlong into the fray when chancing upon Mustadio being attacked in Zaland by the Baert Trading Company's hired blades, there had also been Ramza's "brilliant" idea to save Luso from being trampled by a herd of behemoths. There had also been his giving into the urge to hack his way through a band of goblins to rescue Boco, to chase after the seemingly deranged Cloud when he'd fled and left nary a clue as to where he'd gone, and to intervene when Olan had stumbled upon a den of thieves. And, on top of all that, had been his rash decision to aid Beowulf in returning Reis to her human form and then rescuing her from Bremondt, and to rout a band of Hokuten knights who'd deserted and turned to banditry.

None of these had any bearing on their mission, and each and all had cost time and risked lives they could ill afford to lose. Yet, Ramza had been adamant in each and every case regardless. Perhaps it was because he was a Beoulve, or maybe he was always trying to save lives to make up for Teta, the life he couldn't save.

Whatever the reason, he was a knight, born and bred. And saving lives was what he'd been born and bred for.

Agrias had always been more practical in such matters, having long since reconciled herself to the truth that, in war, people died, regardless of who deserved it and who didn't. Still, she was wise enough to know that Ramza wasn't going to come over to her line of thinking, and so she decided that, rather than change him, she would help him to grow.

His passion for saving lives wouldn't do anyone any good if he got himself killed doing it, so she taught him how to save lives _and_ live to tell about it.

Still, though he was an attentive student, and learned quickly, there was nothing to be done for how his sword hand clenched and his eyes blazed when he saw someone, be it a friend or a loved one or even a stranger, in peril of their lives. And, watching as Alma tottered on the brink of ignominy, Agrias swore that Ramza hadn't twitched this much since he'd caught Agrias donning her armor just after cresting her eighth month of pregnancy.

Despite a snicker at the recollection of how terrified Ramza had looked when Agrias had pinned him against a tree with her ever expanding belly, she understood just why he'd been so frightened. It wasn't just that a blow to her stomach would kill their baby, nor that her ponderous waddling would never see her escape if the group was forced to retreat, but also the knowledge that someone - two someone's, no less - that he cared for deeply were imperiled and that there was nothing he could do about it...just like there had been nothing he could've done to save Teta.

But, donning her armor had been Agrias's decision, just as surely as which suitor Alma would marry, if any, was his little sister's decision. And, as much as Ramza might sweat and fret over it, he was agonizing over what he could not control.

All he could do was watch, wait, and have faith that it would turn out for the best.

Charging onto a battlefield and hazarding his own life was, at least for Ramza, much easier than sitting on his hands and trusting to providence.

"It's alright, Drake" she said gently, making sure to use his alias instead of his true name, should anyone happen to overhear them. "This is only the first night of the ball, and it's still early. Catherine still has two more nights and, with all the fine young men you and the king have picked out for her, I'm sure she's bound to find someone she likes."

Ramza nodded but said nothing as he gave his wife's arm a gentle squeeze, silently thanking her for her reassurance. Judging by the persistent furrow in his brow, he'd needed it...though what she'd offered might not have been enough. The holy knight had been about to offer more, possibly even outlining some thoughts that might help if Alma's pregnancy was exposed, when she felt Rachel squirm in her arms. The duke's gesture had apparently awakened the couple's young daughter and she started to get fussy, as if wanting to be fed. Rocking Rachel gently in an attempt to pacify her, Agrias gave an apologetic smile.

"I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me for a bit, dear," she said. "It looks like our daughter is hungry and I don't want her to make a scene by crying."

Ramza smiled sadly, likely dreading the prospect of being alone to resume his torturous vigil, but he offered no argument. Instead, he painted on an admirable imitation of a smile as he gently stroked his young daughter's soft, wispy hair, so like her mother's. "I understand, Agrias. Do what you need to do; I'll be right here."

"Thank you, Drake," Agrias whispered before giving her husband a kiss on the cheek and making her way out of the ballroom. Since all eyes were on Duchess Seymour and the suitor she was currently dancing with, no one paid Agrias any mind as she silently wove through the crowd, gently rocking Rachel to keep her from bawling. Nearly all the young men in attendance, and even some not-so-young ones, were there to seek Alma's hand. The women at the ball were most likely their mothers, sisters, or attendants, for the sad sighs she'd heard behind her back on the way in had made it clear that everyone knew the Duke of Lionel was already taken.

The holy knight had never been one to gloat, but she couldn't help but feel a bit smug that she had such a man on her arm. A few years ago, she hadn't even known Ramza's name, let alone considered raising a family with him. But now, she couldn't even imagine life without her husband or her daughter.

As she approached one of the more discreet exits from the castle's ballroom, Agrias spied a familiar figure keeping vigil near the door with a female knight at either shoulder. Upon closer inspection, the holy knight finally realized, to her astonishment, that it was her former superior in the Lionsguard. She was an older, rather heavyset woman with curly, sandy-blonde hair streaked with gray. The woman did look like one who was past her prime in life, though she still had many years ahead, and her girth didn't exactly lend her the appearance of a knight.

But, if Agrias had spied the woman she thought she had, then she was well aware of how deceiving appearance could be. And, she'd come away with the bruises to prove it.

Besides, if Agrias had any doubts as to who she was, the eye-patch dispelled them.

"Commander Beatrix?" Agrias gasped.

At the sound of her name and rank, the older woman turned away from the knight she was talking to a moment prior and saw Agrias. Beatrix's remaining eye pulsed wide with, thankfully, friendly recognition and no small amount of relief at the sight of the very same subordinate who'd made some rather unflattering comments about her matronly figure nearly a decade ago.

Even though it had been years since they last saw each other, Beatrix had clearly recognized Agrias right away and, before the younger woman could tighten her hold on her infant daughter with one arm and salute with the other, the middle-aged commander excused herself from the knight she was talking to and enveloped her former subordinate in a tight, maternal embrace.

As the two women parted, the holy knight took in her former commander's appearance and, as certain details belatedly caught her eye, she found her delight at finding Beatrix alive becoming tinged with perplexity.

Judging by the ceremonial armor, as well as the sword by her side, Agrias could tell that her former superior was still on active duty. This was more than a bit odd since, though Agrias didn't doubt that Beatrix was still spry and capable, she was certainly well past the age where any other knight would've retired.

Besides, Beatrix had a husband and five children (at last count) to consider.

"Agrias, I'm so glad to see that you're safe! When I heard that you had vanished after Queen Ovelia was kidnapped, I feared the worst!" Beatrix gushed, not bothering to hide her profound relief.

"I'm sorry I worried you, commander," Agrias apologized. "So much has happened, I don't even know where to begin explaining it all to you."

"It's alright, dear. You owe me no explanation. After all, I am no longer your superior."

Agrias grinned. "You are wrong about that, Lady Beatrix; you will always be my superior. And, in more ways than one, I might add."

At first, the older woman did not know what Agrias meant until she looked down and saw the infant in her arms. Smiling in dawning comprehension and delight alike, Beatrix asked "May I?"

"Of course," Agrias said and handed her infant daughter over to her former superior without hesitation. "I hope you don't mind she's a bit fussy now; she might need to be fed soon."

"It's no trouble, dear," Beatrix said as she gently rocked the infant in her arms. Having sometimes suspected that Rachel was what Reis called a colicky baby, Agrias' jaw drop when she saw that the soothing gesture calmed the child, seemingly without effort. The holy knight, who'd had more than a few sleepless nights due to Rachel's crying, was amazed. Although Beatrix herself was a mother to five children, it must have been years, if not decades, since the older woman had handled such a young child now that her own sons and daughters were grown.

"I can't believe how easily you've made Rachel calm down," Agrias exclaimed. "Even her father and I have difficulty managing that sometimes."

Beatrix smiled. "I've had recent practice, actually; my eldest daughter is about your age and just had a child herself. Unless I miss my guess, her son is about the same age as your daughter."

Agrias' found her eyes widening at the revelation. "You have a grandson?" she asked in astonishment.

Beatrix laughed merrily. "Of course, I do! What did you expect since I'm an old woman now!"

"Surely you can't be _that_ old if you are still on duty as commander of the Lionsguard."

As soon as Beatrix heard Agrias mention her position, the older woman frowned.

"About that, Agrias," Beatrix began, almost grimly, "The reason I remain on duty is because I have not yet found anyone suitable to replace me so I can retire. During the war, my sons served on the front lines. They're all whole and hale, but now they are needed in King Delita's new Order of the Chimera. My two younger daughters have chosen not to follow the path of a knight, however. And, it may be some time before my eldest daughter can take my place since she has a baby boy to take care of. My husband, Steiner, has already stepped down as head of the Touten Knights and writes me daily about my grandson. I long to join them."

"Oh…I'm sorry," Agrias apologized. But, Beatrix merely smiled and shook her head.

"There is no need. As long as there is still strength in my old bones, I shall continue to fulfill my duty to the crown to the best of my ability."

"I never doubted that you could. Not since _that_ day."

"The day you likened me to a bipedal cow and got...trampled?" Beatrix finished, unable to keep a wry grin from her features, though her expression became earnest a heartbeat later. "Are you still bitter about it, Agrias? A lesson about never underestimating a foe is one we all need to learn, but I'm not so old as to forget how being trounced before an audience must've felt."

"Of course not, my lady," Agrias affirmed, somehow not surprised by how much she meant it. "In fact, I think you actually did me a favor; I learned something very important on that day." Further explanation was obviated when the holy knight gazed down at the drowsy face of her daughter.

"I'm glad," Beatrix said before changing the subject. "So how old is she?"

"A little over two months. Her father is the Duke of Lionel, the redhead with the mustache over there," Agrias answered as she subtly pointed to her husband.

Ramza remained much as Agrias had left him, standing alone on the far side of the ballroom watching his sister dance with one suitor after another. Though it was obvious to Agrias that Ramza was still worried and frustrated, he was hiding both behind a mask of casual disinterest.

Knowing the duke, that was hard work.

Beatrix laughed softly when she saw Ramza. "The mustache that looks like he stole it from the local theater's makeup drawer?"

The holy knight just couldn't help herself; she burst out laughing and, she swore, Rachel added her light giggles to the mirth.

"That's him," the holy knight gasped out. "He's younger than me but older than he looks. He grew that thing because he was so tired of everyone saying how young he looked. I don't think it's working just yet, though."

"I never would've figured you for a cradle snatcher," Beatrix joked in reply. "But, I am glad you've found someone. He's quite a catch, my dear. I take it that, once his sister marries, you will be the new Duchess of Lionel?"

Agrias frowned at the inquiry. "Actually," she began, somewhat hesitantly, "I was hoping I could rejoin the Lionsguard, if you would have me back."

"Ahh… I'm sorry, my dear but I'm afraid I must refuse," Beatrix said gently as she handed Rachel back to Agrias. "Need I tell you why?"

At first, the holy knight was confused but when she looked down and saw her daughter staring back up at her, she finally understood.

After Ramza had alerted her, Beowulf, and Reis to what Delita had attempted to do on the castle roof, not to mention him confessing to briefly entertaining the notion of killing Ovelia, Agrias had half a mind to drag Ovelia's so-called husband back to the roof and throw him off. Even after her blaze of rage had subsided to hot, simmering coals of anger, she was quite far from forgiving Delita for what he'd nearly done, and what would've happened had Ramza been but a second or two late. Still, though the holy knight was furious at Delita for nearly making Ovelia a widow by his latest acts of selfishness, she also knew that someone in the king's state of mind might very well try again.

He might even be so consumed with despairing derangement that he might try and take his professed loved one with him.

So, on an impulse, Agrias had considered vying for reinstatement in the Lionsguard. Even if Agrias had to talk herself into it, a post amongst the knights personally charged with the protection of the royal family would allow her to prevent any further attempts by Delita to cut short his own life.

Or Ovelia's, for that matter.

And, before Agrias had fallen in love with Ramza and gotten pregnant, she likely would've done just that long ago. Except, she had fallen in love with Ramza, gotten pregnant, and bore a beautiful baby girl.

And, though she owed Ovelia her friendship and loyalty, she owed far more to her family. And, so long as Rachel was too young to be without her mother for more than a few hours, theirs was the better claim.

So, like Ramza, she would have to spend some time on the sidelines, entrusting the fate of one she cared for like family to others.

And, to God.

 _Ramza, I think your instinct to charge headlong at everything makes a little more sense now_ , she mused sadly.

"No, Lady Beatrix. I understand perfectly," Agrias admitted, somewhat chastened.

"Now, dear, there's no need to look so downhearted," Beatrix said, almost remonstratively. "Believe me, there are worse things than spending time with one's family. We've dealt with quite a few of them."

"True, but there's another reason I wanted to return, actually," Agrias added, subtly craning her head in Delita's direction.

"Ah, so you noticed that too?" Beatrix whispered as she sensed her former subordinate's line of thought.

"Yes," Agrias confirmed, parsing her words carefully. "Drake and King Delita are more like brothers than cousins and, when we arrived, Drake sensed that His Majesty was not himself."

"Yes, I agree. Still, in case you hadn't noticed, there are quite a few here who can keep an eye on things. Don't you remember what else you learned way back when?"

"That, as knights, we must be able to place our faith in our fellows."

"If I remember right, it took you a bit to learn that lesson too. Still, it's not just us who will be keeping watch. Some old friends of you and your husband will also be on hand."

Agrias' perplexity must've shown, for Beatrix gave her the knowing look which the holy knight remembered all too well from years gone by.

"A few days ago, a group of former Hokuten was inducted into the Order of the Chimera," Beatrix went on. "Before...whatever's been bothering him came about, His Majesty said that they'd fought alongside him and your husband during the battle against the Corpse Brigade, as well as several battles in the War of the Lions."

Realization blossomed in the holy knight's mind as she understood who her former superior must be referring to. They could only be Raffe, Francis, Abel, Wynefreede, Mydrede, and Emery, who'd been Ramza and Delita's former classmates at the Hokuten academy in Gariland. The letter they'd sent to Ramza had said the six of them would try to join the Chimera Knights, so that they, along with Olan, would be able to detect and interdict any attempts by Delita to betray either Ramza or Ovelia.

Perhaps, if they were to be stationed in the castle, they might be willing to watch out for any further attempts by Delita to cut short his own life, or Ovelia's?

If so, then either she or Ramza should try to discreetly alert them to the situation, if that had not been done already. Still, though it galled Agrias to place Ovelia's well-being in the hands of others, even those she trusted, she knew what she had to do so nonetheless.

After all, as Beatrix had hinted earlier, however much Ovelia might need her, the baby in her arms needed her far more.

Again, Beatrix must've sensed what path Agrias' thoughts were tracing, for she laid a weathered hand on the holy knight's shoulder and smiled reassuringly.

"You understand, then?" she asked.

"Yes, I do," Agrias affirmed. "And, it's good that Drake's former classmates have joined the Chimeras. I've fought alongside them many times during the war, and I can vouch for the lot of them. Besides, even if their Majesties need me later, Rachel needs me now."

"Correct. For now, your first priority is your child. When she is a bit older and if you still feel like you want to return, I would gladly welcome you back."

"I'm glad. Thank you, my lady."

Beatrix smiled as she leaned over and gave her former subordinate a gentle, almost motherly kiss on her forehead. "I'm very happy for you, Agrias. Go to your husband, we can talk again later. Oh, and one last thing."

Withdrawing a pace or two, Beatrix stood at what knights and professional soldiers referred to as "parade rest", feet parallel and spaced shoulder length while she stood straighter than most women of her years could manage. She then clenched one hand into a fist, clapped it to her heart and intoned "By fang and claw".

It was a heavily abbreviated form of the creed of the Lionsguard, by which the well-honed claws of Ivalice's most stalwart knighthood defended the royal family with their very lives. In its much-shortened form, it was passed between their own as an acknowledgment of orders and a sign of respect from a superior to a subordinate or between peers.

In this case, it was also an affirmation that Beatrix's promise that Agrias would have her place in the Lionsguard back, if she sought it in the future, was not given falsely.

Unable to keep a grin from her features, and with the movements being so reflexive as to cause one to doubt that it had been years since she'd last performed them, Agrias returned the salute and replied: "By fang and claw".

Nestled in the curve of her other arm, Rachel gurgled happily, almost as though in approval, before finally dropping off to sleep.

"I daresay the little one will want to join the Lionsguard herself one day," Beatrix observed. "Well, I plan on being around to find out. Besides, few things that can make an old woman want to stay alive and kicking like her grandchildren smiling up at her."

"And, I hope you have many happy years with your family," Agrias replied, suddenly wondering if she might consent to giving Rachel a sibling or two in the future. "And, if ever you and your family visit Lionel, we'd be thrilled to have you as our guests."

"I look forward to holding you to that promise. And, while you're here, don't be a stranger. I'd like to get more of your story before you go home."

"Yes, we will definitely talk again. Enjoy the rest of your evening, Commander Beatrix."

"I will."

Now that her daughter was sleeping quietly and peacefully in her arms again, Agrias no longer needed to leave the ballroom. She knew that Ramza would need to know that his old classmates were on hand, in case Delita's wits were not righted by the time they had to return to Lionel; but, for now, she could not help smiling when she realized that Beatrix had done her yet another favor. The conversation with her former superior also made the holy knight finally remember what it was that she and Ramza had argued about a few months ago that made her feel like strangling him. He had not-so-subtly suggested that she stay off the battlefield because her pregnancy might hinder her ability to fight, though it was more likely he was worried about losing their unborn child. Granted, he had made such characteristic blunders as saying she'd be too slow and her swollen belly presented too easy a target, and Agrias wouldn't have needed to be pregnant to fly into a spitting rage at the seeming intimation that she was too fat to fight. Still, though Ramza had likely seemed quite emasculated arguing with his pregnant lover, and looking well and truly terrified of her while doing so, Agrias was glad that she had ultimately chosen to listen.

One blow to her belly would've been enough to see them burying their baby instead of rocking her to sleep.

And, if she had been pregnant while still in the Lionsguard, Agrias knew it was likely Beatrix would have ordered to stay off the battlefield for that very reason.

After leaving Beatrix to resume her conversation with her fellow guards, Agrias returned to where Ramza stood watching Alma. Although he tried to hide it behind that porous mask of calm, the holy knight could tell that her husband was still worried and increasingly frustrated at his sister's unwillingness to give any of the men seeking her hand even a chance at getting to know her. Were it not for her pregnancy, Agrias knew that Ramza would not have minded giving Alma as much time as she needed to accept Izlude's death and move on. But, unfortunately, time was a luxury she simply did not have, especially since it would not be long before her pregnancy became obvious.

And, Ramza was not the only one concerned. So were Delita, at least in his more lucid moments, as well as Ovelia, Agrias, and the rest of their friends.

And then there was also the matter of revealing the true paternity of Alma's baby to Meliadoul as well.

With everything else that had happened, she couldn't blame Ramza for fearing that Meliadoul might overreact disastrously if she were to learn of Alma's pregnancy while the balls were still underway. However, though Meliadoul had a quick temper, Agrias knew her to be have been a loving sister to the late Izlude and she would not do so great a disservice as brand his child a bastard while in the heat of anger.

Granted, Ramza would likely come away from such an explanation with sore ears and some bruises, but no more.

After informing Ramza about their likely "reinforcements", which caused the duke to literally sag with relief, the rest of the evening went by uneventfully. When it was over and everyone had retired for the evening, however, Ramza seemed more than a bit displeased that the first ball had apparently achieved very little. Despite Agrias' attempts to mollify him, he decided to pay his sister a visit after seeing his wife and daughter to bed. Grumbling something about Beoulve stubbornness, the holy knight resigned herself to preparing many an I-told-you-so for when Ramza inevitably returned after saying all the wrong things first.

 _Well, if he doesn't call her fat, I can picture him making it back out in one piece_ , she decided before her eyelids fluttered shut.

Most of the suitors for Alma's hand had boarded at the inns in Central Lesalia, so that they could attend the next two nights of the ball at their convenience. It wasn't unusual for guests to show up at various times of the night. In fact, showing up "fashionably late" was habitual amongst those in the highest ranks of Ivalician nobility.

Perhaps one would materialize at the eleventh hour, arriving just in time and when all seemed darkest.

After all, it had happened for Agrias at Bariaus Valley. Perhaps it would happen for Alma as well.


	20. Old Friends Reunite, part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hi, this is Elly3981. I am editing this chapter for my co-writer Falchion1984 and our new beta reader Bluefelt of Deviantart and noticed it turned out longer than I thought so I've decided to split it into two chapters. On another note, we do have art to go with our fic which is on DeviantArt under my pen-name. The lovely Alma and Ovelia illustration is drawn by DeviantArt member, Arisa777o-w-o.

"Did you enjoy the ball, Charlotte?" Alma asked, as much to take her mind off how much she herself hadn't enjoyed it as out of the hope Charlotte and Manon had fared better.

As honored guests of the king and queen, she, Ramza, and Agrias, as well as Rad, Alicia, Lavian, Beowulf, and Reis, were given accommodations inside Lesalia Castle while the other guests had to stay in the city. Manon and Charlotte were also allowed to stay with the disguised Beoulve siblings as their attendants as well.

Alma and Charlotte were about to start removing her ball gown so she could change into her sleeping gown, but, after having felt so many eyes boring into her all night, including Ramza's disapproving stare as one suitor after another inevitably fell short of filling the void left by Izlude, the disguised duchess hoped to stave off a lonely night for at least a bit longer.

"Yes, Milady," Charlotte answered and, though Alma was facing away from the young girl, the duchess could swear she heard Charlotte's mouth creaking as she grinned broadly. "It was all so pretty. The ballroom, the dresses, the music. And especially the food. Manon and I even tried to follow along with the dances."

"Did that go well?" Alma asked, recalling how she'd had to bat her eyes quite energetically to get the two children admitted to the ball, but now thinking that it had been worth it.

"We only fell down three or four times."

That brought some badly needed laughter to Alma's evening, though it didn't stop her from giving Charlotte what she approximated to be a knowing, motherly look.

"And, did he behave himself?" she asked.

"Yes, Milady," Charlotte answered, blushing slightly. "He's always been very nice to me, even back when we were at the workhouse. Sir Beowulf seems like he really thinks Manon could be a great knight someday. Manon practices all the time, and he's getting better really fast!"

In truth, Alma already knew much of this and suspected the rest. Though she'd seen that Manon had his better angels under his skirt-chasing exterior, she was not pleased that he'd made her acquaintance by reaching up her skirts, even if it was only to distract her while the half-starved Charlotte made off with her breakfast.

And, when she'd overheard Manon describing just how much he'd enjoyed that particular "diversionary tactic", Alma had been quick to put her foot down.

Still, she had been paying close attention to Beowulf's efforts to help Manon grow into something better than a skirt chaser. Rad was quite enough on that count, especially since Alicia and Lavian were so...appreciative of his rude attentions.

And, as Charlotte had pointed out, Manon's progress had been impressive. Though he still had a roguish streak, he was much more the little gentleman and his diligence in his training showed in how he'd filled out with lean muscle.

Judging by Charlotte's blush, she was aware of this as well.

This brought a smile to Alma's face, though it quickly turned melancholic when she recalled that, even if she was right that Charlotte and Manon saw each other as more than just friends and chose to act upon these feelings someday, the disguised duchess would not be nearly as fortunate.

Izlude was gone, and only a horde of poor substitutes remained to her.

"And, what about you?" the duchess asked, eager to forget her suitors for just a bit longer. "Have you been behaving yourself?"

Charlotte's blush deepened a bit and her eyes drifted away from Alma's in an all too telling fashion.

"Yes, Milady," she said, though she sounded far from convincing.

Alma's expression became one of gentle remonstration.

"Just how much dessert did you have?" she asked, painfully aware of just how much the deceptively small girl could put away.

That too was showing. However, whereas Manon had filled out with the lean muscle of an unlikely squire, Charlotte's post as an equally unlikely mistress of the kitchen had added noticeable pudginess to her frame. Apart from the curve of her burgeoning potbelly, which looked tellingly tight, her once hallow cheeks had thickened to the point where more than a few of the older ladies in attendance had had a merry time pinching them...

...and to the point where Alma could discern how they quivered noticeably when Charlotte was pondering how to answer awkward questions.

"Milady, it was just a plate," Charlotte squeaked, looking for all the world like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar...in every sense of the phrase.

Alma was skeptical. And, when an almost casual glance at Charlotte's belly caused the girl to make a vain attempt to suck it in, the Beoulve girl gave Charlotte what she hoped would was a stern, motherly look.

Dealing with Manon and Charlotte's shenanigans had given her plenty of practice, which Alma suspected she'd need when her own baby was having a willful moment. And, sure enough, only a few heartbeats were needed before Charlotte blew out a guilty sigh, allowing her belly free rein to push out against the fabric of her dress.

"Or...three," she squeaked as the notion of having disappointed the Duchess of Lionel caused her to quiver, figuratively and literally, with dread.

"Three...Charlotte, do you have any idea how much sugar must've been in all that?!" With an effort, Alma calmed herself down and spoke more calmly. "Yes, I know it all looked good, and probably tasted even better, but eating that much could make you sick. And, even if it doesn't, all that sugar might keep you awake when you need your sleep."

Charlotte looked stricken, which promptly caused Alma to feel guilty for expecting a girl who'd crossed her doorstep half-starved to be aware of how too much food might affect her previously malnourished frame. Still, though Charlotte was past the point of stuffing herself until it made her ill, Alma's studies of the healing arts were more than enough to tell her that going from skin-and-bones to obese was no improvement.

Conversely, Alma reminded herself that, in addition to hunger, Charlotte's life in the workhouse had also been characterized by those elders she'd had, both the adults who'd so badly failed their charges and the older children who'd become thugs once they'd been abandoned, who would react violently to her infractions, be they large or small. Alma could not bear to resurrect those lingering ghosts and make those old wounds throb anew, but she also knew that too much leniency would do Charlotte no service if the girl did not learn that her penchant for overeating would have consequences which were best avoided.

So, for now, she needed to strike the delicate balance between making sure Charlotte learned the lesson and taking care not to revive her fears of abuse or abandonment from her time in the defunct workhouse.

"Listen, I'm not angry," she assured, which caused Charlotte to sag with relief. "But, I do need you to listen to me. Yes, those desserts are good, but too much can be bad for you. Do you remember those first few nights, and how sick you felt?"

"I remember, Milady," Charlotte said, chastened, but no longer seeming as stricken as she did before. "You rubbed my tummy to help settle it, and I..."

"Belched in my face? Yes, I remember. Still, my point stands. Eating too much sugar can be bad for you. Apart from making your stomach hurt, it can keep you awake when you'd best be sleeping. And, Manon and I need you to be rested and on your feet tomorrow. So does Drake, Agrias, little Rachel, and my baby. I'm not saying no dessert, but I will need you to watch how much you eat. Can you do that?"

"I'll do my best, Milady."

"That's more than enough. Now, come here."

With that, Alma scooped Charlotte up and, with a joking comment or two about the latter's weight, pulled her in for a hug. Charlotte, apparently mollified and relieved, returned it gratefully and, for a moment, Alma found her melancholy over the balls, and what they portended, ebbing away...

...but, it surged right back in when a knock was heard at the door and a familiar, and less-than-welcome, voice was heard.

"Catherine, are you still up? It's me, Drake. Can I talk to you for a moment?"

Alma sighed, already sensing what her brother had to say, and turning to her young ward.

"I'm sorry, Charlotte, but can you get the door?" Alma asked. "It's probably my brother. I think he wants to talk, so can you go and join Manon until I send for you again?"

The young girl was puzzled at her mistress' request but obeyed nonetheless. "Yes, Milady."

As Alma predicted, Charlotte opened the door and promptly found Ramza standing upon the threshold, a frown marring his normally pristine features. As soon as he saw his sister's young ward staring up at him, the young noble sighed and bent over before placing a gil coin, of a significant denomination, in her hand.

"I'm sorry for troubling you, Charlotte, but can you give my sister and I a moment to talk privately?"

"Yes, Milord," And, with a curtsey, the young girl departed without another word.

As soon as they were alone and Ramza made sure the door was closed, he and Alma stared at each other for a long moment steeped in tense silence. Even before the young duke spoke, his displeasure was obvious, for his brow sported an array of deep furrows and, after holding the stare for what felt like hours, he heaved a sigh and massaged his temples as if trying to soothe away a headache. And, a pounding one by the look of it. Although he had said nothing yet, his sister already knew exactly what was on his mind.

Agrias wasn't the only one to whom the emotive face of Ramza Beoulve was an open book.

"Brother, please don't start" she very nearly pleaded.

"I'm sorry, Alma, but you and I both know this can't go on," he said, his words equal parts frustration and weariness. "Would it be too much to ask for you to at least give _one_ of your suitors a chance? Maybe get to know one of them? I know you still have two more nights, but at the rate you're going, you won't be able to find anyone you like even if you had all the time in the world."

Perhaps it was the strain of the day. Maybe it was the effects Reis told her that carrying a child would have on her temperament. Whatever the reason, Alma vaulted to her feet, more than a bit unsteadily, and fixed her brother with a glare that could've blistered paint.

"Excuse me, Ramza, but would you have liked it if father gave you only three nights to find and marry the woman you'd likely be spending the rest of your life with?" she challenged, almost reveling in how the question made Ramza wince. "Were marriage and having a family the first thing on your mind when you first met Agrias? From what she told me, she barely tolerated you when you two first met."

"Yes, that's true, but I'm not the one on the clock and running out of time right now," Ramza countered as he pointed to Alma's belly, which he swore was growing bigger by the day. "Don't you think it's a bit irresponsible of you to turn away from your best chance to give your child a father, not to mention save your own reputation as a noblewoman?"

Alma felt blood on her palm, and only belatedly realized that she'd clenched her fist so tightly that her nails had pierced the skin. Yet, she paid it little heed, her vision turning red at Ramza's barb. "You should talk, brother! You and I both know it takes two to make one. Did you ever think about how 'irresponsible' it was to get one of your best soldiers pregnant? And, in the middle of a war, no less?!"

Ramza had faced down a veritable pantheon of Lucavi demons, as well as a legion of their mortal followers, and the worst of church and state alike. And yet, he nonetheless found himself drawing back a pace at Alma's rising temper, his breath catching in his throat when he realized that his words had come back to bite him in the ass. Nevertheless, he refused to give up. After all, this wasn't about him, but Alma herself.

It was also about the child she carried, who might very well be condemned to a life of ignominy before he or she was even born if Alma didn't get her head mortared on straight.

"But, this isn't about _me_ , is it?" he shot back. "Yes, it was unwise for me and Agrias to have…relations during the war. Was it unplanned? Very. Was it stupid? Monumentally. But, what's done is done. I love Agrias and Rachel, and I wouldn't trade them for anything. We had to make some hard choices, but we made them, and we now have a daughter we're both responsible for and I am going to give both of them a good home."

The fire in Alma's gaze had begun to sputter during her brother's speech, and not just because of the strength of conviction behind Ramza's words. Vormav had described Ramza as having the devil's own luck, and Alma frankly agreed. For only Ramza could have found happiness - or, rather, made happiness - out of getting a woman he'd known for only a few months pregnant while both were on the run and waging war against disguised demons all the while.

The heat of anger might've been gone from her eyes, but many a coal of envy now simmered deep in her gut at the knowledge that fate hadn't dealt her nearly as fortuitous a hand.

"But, what about you?" he asked, advancing nearer to tower over her as though his scant inches of greater height might lend weight to his words. "Are you willing to raise your child alone while being scorned by the rest of society? If you were a commoner, none of these swaggering peacocks would care. But, whether you like it or not, you are a noblewoman and must live up to the standards of one. Delita and I have taken great pains to narrow down the suitor pool for you so that you would have the chance to find a husband who's to your liking, so what more do you want? It's more of a choice than Dycedarg would have ever given you, and we both know it."

Alma was silent for a moment as she considered her brother's words, those coals of envy cooling in the face of bleak realization. She knew Ramza was right; with their father gone, the leadership of House Beoulve had fallen to Balbanes' eldest son and, as Alma had reminded herself earlier, Dycedarg had held no love for Balbanes' second wife and even less for the children she'd birthed. Undoubtedly, Dycedarg would have been quite eager to marry Alma off to anyone he chose in exchange for some future political favors. Indeed, had she not decided to run away to assist Ramza on his journey, there was nothing which would have stopped him from doing so. And even Zalbag, who had doted on Alma a great deal, would have been powerless to prevent it. Though he was an accomplished commander, he'd fallen tragically short of his father's legacy. And, he was further disadvantaged since he was neither head of House Beoulve, nor had his political acumen been nearly the equal of Dycedarg's. In all likelihood, he would have also abided by their eldest brother's decision.

"I know that you and Delita are doing this for me," she admitted, her brother's face becoming distorted as moisture gathered in her eyes. "But, you must understand that this is not an easy choice for me to make, and not only because the suitor I marry will likely be my husband for life. Do I need to tell you why?"

Alma's words faded to a strangled sob as she turned from Ramza, refusing to meet his gaze.

Ramza stared at his sister in silence for a moment before understanding slowly dawned on him and a sigh of frustration parted his lips.

"Dear God, Alma, I know Izlude was a good man and that you loved him. But he is dead and gone!" he blurted out, too aggravated to consider just how ill-advised his words were. "Treasure your memories with him, but accept that fact!" Ramza, his exasperation seeming to grow with each word, punctuated his argument with a swiping gesture with his hand.

Perhaps Ramza was, as usual, well-meaning but dreadfully clumsy with his words. Agrias had told a story or two along those lines. Maybe after such a long and frustrating day, his tact had deserted him along with his infamously limited patience. There was no shortage of people who could attest that it happened often enough.

A small part of Alma told her that, as much as Ramza deserved to leave with a very red and exceptionally smarting handprint across his cheek, that he was acting in the best interest of Alma and her child. Well, trying to, anyway.

But, at that moment, the cooling coals of anger and envy in the very core of Alma's being were suddenly stoked back to life and she glared at her brother with a credible imitation of Altima's maleficent glower.

"How _dare_ you say such a thing to me!" she shrieked, so loudly that she was dimly aware of doors creaking open from somewhere nearby. _"You_ still have Agrias! Rachel still has her mother! And knowing this, you have the _gall_ to tell me I that should forget the father of my child!? Pretend that he never existed?! Because I can't! And, I never will!"

Ramza's breath caught in his throat once more as he found himself taken aback by his sister's torrent of ire. Exhausted and out of sorts though he was, he tried to gather enough of his scattered wits to make an attempt to mollify her. Simply put, tonight was definitely not his night. Between the matter of finding an appropriate, and unwitting, proxy to act as the father to Alma's child, which became vastly more complicated by what Delita was going through, not to mention the issue of telling Meliadoul about her late brother's baby, it seemed as if Ramza's infamous luck had finally deserted him and everything was blowing up in his face.

"Alma, please, I didn't mean it like that," he implored, desperately gesturing for his sister to lower her voice lest she wake the castle's other inhabitants. "I never told you to forget Izlude, but you must at least _try_ to move on. I'm sure he would've told you the same if he knew what was going to happen."

Alma had been about to make a decidedly unladylike suggestion about what Ramza should do with his so-called divinations of Izlude's thoughts when, suddenly, her head lightened and the room began to spin. Fighting the urge to cry out in pain or sadness, or both, she gasped out as she felt her abdomen seemingly convulse and her legs began to buckle beneath her. The strain of the argument she'd just had with her brother had apparently taken a toll on her body and Alma suddenly found the floor seeming to tilt beneath her while the ceiling whirled overhead. Ramza also noticed and ran to catch her before she could collapse to the hard marble. Thinking quickly, he shouted for the nearest servant, hoping that one or two had already drawn near upon hearing the siblings' raised voices. Sure enough, a maid soon answered his shouts and, apparently sensing the urgency, flung open the door. Spying Alma's collapsed form in Ramza's arms, she let out a quiet gasp and, not even bothering with a perfunctory curtsey, spoke.

"Yes, my lord? What happened?"

"Please send for Lady Reis Kadmus immediately! My sister is unwell and is in need of her help."

"Yes, my lord. I shall send for her at once."

* * *

Alma's dreams had become much more vivid following her pregnancy, and many of them had been unpleasant.

The latest proved no exception.

There had been the bittersweet dreams where she was reunited with Izlude, either fully aware that he was dead and yet unable to resist a few wonderful hours of having him back or where he'd escaped death. In either case, Alma would awaken alone and in tears, very nearly wishing Vormav had gleaned that Altima's would-be vessel would not serve his fell purposes and killed her. A few of her dreams had been of her brief possession by Altima, just prior to her rescue by Ramza. And, sometimes, she dreamed about the battle in the Graveyard of Airships ending...differently.

In this latest nightmare, she was still Altima's vessel during the battle of the Graveyard of Airships. And, she was winning.

One by one Ramza's companions were killed, either hacked to pieces by the High Seraph's blades or hurled overboard to vanish into the bottomless gloom below the ruined vessel. Ultimately, Ramza found himself alone, and he had been overwhelmed by the Angel of Blood. His sword arm was hewn off at the elbow, his knees were shattered, and his eyes were torn out, followed by his tongue.

After that, he'd been mutilated and brutalized further, ravaged, and then left to slowly die in a pool of his own blood.

But, the worst part was that Alma, who had watched it all through the eyes she now shared with the foremost of the Lucavi, had, on some basest of levels, _enjoyed_ it.

She'd recoiled in horror at the notion, but that horror dulled and dimmed as Altima whispered into Ramza's ear, as much for the benefit of Alma's lasting conversion as to further torture the dying Beoulve.

After all, hadn't Ramza failed to rescue Teta from the Corpse Brigade, blindly assuming Dycedarg would save her when Ramza should've known better?

Hadn't Ramza chosen to run away from home, not even bothering to return to Alma so she might not be alone as she mourned Teta's death, and Delita seemingly dying with her?

Hadn't Ramza been foolish enough to be duped, twice, by Cardinal Draclau, and thus leading to Ovelia having become Goltana's figurehead and captive?

Hadn't Ramza abandoned Ovelia to her fate after learning of the Lucavi scheming behind the curtain of the war?

Hadn't Ramza been foolish enough to leave Alma unguarded as he'd searched Orbonne Monastery for the Virgo stone?

Hadn't Ramza, apparently, been too busy rolling in the hay with Agrias to rescue Alma in a timely fashion, leaving his sister to fall in love with Izlude Tingel only to lose him?

Hadn't Ramza decided that derailing the High Confessor's plans for the mutual annihilation of the White and Black Lions was more important than rescuing Alma following her abduction from Riovanes?

And, hadn't Ramza pushed her into this ridiculous scheme to marry a man she could never truly love to stand in for the father for her baby when Izlude might still be alive had Ramza done better by his sole remaining kin, and then had the gall to lecture her about responsibility when he'd done worse?

With each accusation, the coals of anger in Alma's gut, long cooled but never truly gone, blazed anew and all was blood and screamed condemnations. By the time Alma returned to herself, Ramza was dead and, with none left to save her, she was alone upon a throne of brimstone at the head of the legions of Lucavi. Forever.

She whimpered and thrashed in horror at this dread realization, until a hand, warm and wonderfully human, gently shook her awake.

"Catherine, are you awake? How are you feeling?"

The Beoulve girl slowly opened her eyes to find herself, to her great relief, well away from the Graveyard of Airships and Altima. As her sleep blurred eyes darted about, she saw that she'd been dressed in her nightgown sometime after she'd passed out and had been tucked in bed with the blankets up to her chin. Hearing the sound of marching feet and sloshing liquid, Alma craned her head forward and spotted Reis sitting on a chair by her bedside, concern in her cerulean eyes. Off to one side, Charlotte was standing near the night table, pouring Alma a cup of steaming, frothy water, likely an herbal tea brewed at Reis's request. Near the door, Manon, who'd apparently been pacing up and down the area between the bed and the door, whirled in her direction and, abandoning his newfound knightly poise, charged over to her bedside and began peppering her with questions about her wellbeing.

"Reis? Charlotte? Manon? What are you all doing here?" Alma asked curiously, her voice slurred from weariness. "Where's...Drake? How long have I been out?"

"Easy, dear, one thing at a time," Reis said gently as she made a gesture for Charlotte to come over with the cup, gently helping the Beoulve girl to sit up and then to firmly take the cup in both hands.

"Thank you so much, both of you," Alma said as she accepted the glass and, at Reis's insistence, delicately sipped the water before handing it back to Charlotte.

"You're welcome, dear," Reis answered kindly, showing not even a hint of remonstration over another night spent beside Alma's sickbed. " And, to answer your question, you fainted after arguing with your brother yesterday. He sent for me and Charlotte to treat you and put you to bed. While Manon made sure we weren't disturbed, Charlotte and I mixed some herbal teas which I brought with me in case of situations like this. Once we'd steeped them for greater potency and let them cool, we were able to ladle them down your throat. It seemed to calm you, for your heartbeat and color returned to normal, but that thrashing and whimpering had us worried for a moment."

"Actually, that was a nightmare," Alma replied, mortified at her weakness. "They've gotten quite vivid since I became pregnant, and this one was truly awful."

Reis looked as though she wanted to ask more, but a quick flick of Alma's eyes in Charlotte's direction was enough to convince the dragonkin that now was not the right time.

After all, a dream about being possessed by a Lucavi demon would raise eyebrows in and of itself, to say nothing of that "dream" being an embellished memory.

"I see," Reis said simply, her relief not entirely feigned despite Alma's deflection. "Well, I'll need to examine you to be sure, but I doubt either you or the baby have suffered any harm. You will be expected at the ball tonight, but you won't need to be getting ready until near sundown. I want you to get as much rest as you can between now and then."

"Alright," Alma conceded, though she hardly relished the idea of spending most of the day in bed after her latest nightmare. "I'm just sorry to have troubled you like this again. And, I'm very grateful for your help."

"Over -praised, I'm afraid. These little ones have been a great help to me."

"Hey, I'm not little!" Manon objected, before belatedly recalling some lessons about how to properly address a lady. "I mean, I must respectfully contest that, Milady. A child would not have kept watch through the night, but I am a squire and I can keep watch from dusk to dawn if need be."

"All you did was pace back and forth all night," Charlotte pointed out cheekily.

"I did not! Besides, someone had to stay awake after you fell asleep, in case Lady Catherine needed us. And, I had to watch the door to make sure nobody slipped inside."

"In the middle of the night?"

"That's the best time. It's dark and there are fewer people to see. And, what if one of those men from the ball tried to sneak in? Milady's honor was at stake!"

Manon, caught up in his own exuberance, leapt atop the bed, causing it to jolt and pitch beneath Alma. Snatching a wooden training sword from his belt, he began slashing at the air and dancing back and forth on the mattress as though fending off some unseen rapscallion with designs upon his lady's maidenhead.

Alma might've reminded him that that particular ship had sailed quite a while ago, but she was too busy holding on for dear life.

Charlotte had been about to make another rejoinder, but Alma promptly cut her off.

"Stop, stop, stop!" she commanded, more shrilly than she would've liked but the two children had gone silent and stock-still before she'd even finished speaking. "Are you telling me that you've been up all night?"

Hearing this, both children suddenly found it difficult to meet her gaze. Sensing why, Alma took care to soften her remaining words.

Not by too much though. Manon and Charlotte might've been more fragile than they let on, but Alma also knew that coddling them would help no one.

"You really shouldn't have," Alma admonished, working to keep her tone firm but not unkind. "There's not a place better guarded than this castle in all the kingdom. Besides, Manon, you'll need to get your rest if you want to grow up to be big and strong like a knight. And, Charlotte, remember our little talk about taking better care of yourself? Well, that includes getting a proper night's sleep."

Though the two children managed to meet Alma's gaze this time, neither seemed too inclined to listen.

"Well, we were _that_ worried," Manon pointed out, puffing out his chest in a show of adolescent defiance. "And, we would've done the same even if you'd asked us not to."

"Besides, who could sleep after all that sugar?" Charlotte asked, dovetailing her point by giving her stomach a slap.

Though Alma found herself wondering if she might regret it the next time Manon decided to maintain a "vigil-at-arms" or the next time Charlotte found this dessert or that too tantalizing, the Beoulve girl gave a mental shrug and gestured for the children to join her.

They were quick to oblige and, after another moment or two of the mattress pitching beneath her, Alma felt two pairs of arms coil about her in a tight, protective embrace.

The Beoulve girl felt a smile tug at the corner of her lips at the children's devotion, yet it soured when she glanced at them and noticed the dark circles under each of their eyes. This was the second time she'd fainted since discovering that she was pregnant with Izlude's child a few months prior, and the second time she'd gotten her unlikely family worried over it. What's worse, she'd kept Manon and Charlotte up through the night when, given that they were still growing and had considerable responsibilities for being so young, they surely needed all the rest they could get.

Not for the first time, Alma found herself wondering just how she could take care of a baby when she had a hard enough time taking care of herself.

Reis seemed to sense her thoughts, and Alma idly wondered if that might be yet another of her draconic traits. Still, though it made the Beoulve girl feel like more of a burden than ever, she regarded the dragonkin with an attentive, if somewhat desperate, expression.

Whether she liked it or not, and no matter how much it wounded what pride yet remained to her, she needed the strength Reis could lend her.

Without Izlude, Alma feared her own would not be enough.

"Catherine, I need you to listen to me," Reis began. "Drake seemed reluctant to tell me what happened, but after I pressed him, he admitted that you two had a... disagreement regarding your reluctance to choose from amongst your suitors."

Alma lowered her eyes. "Oh… was that all?"

Reis sighed sadly and gently stroked the younger woman's hair. Over the last few months, Alma had grown fond of the dragonkin who became like an older sister to her. Reis was also likely to be a better mother than Alma ever would. Again, the dragonkin seemed to catch her train of thought, for she laid a hand, cold as dragon scales and yet as welcome as sunlight after a storm, upon Alma's cheek.

"I don't know if there is any delicate way to say this, but your brother is right," Reis said gravely. "I hate to see you rushed into marriage, but I fear for the future of your child as well as your own should you remain unwed. I don't blame you for being angry; if I lost Beowulf, I would be devastated. But, I also know that he would want me to go on with my life and be happy. The man who fathered your baby would surely want that for you too. As for Drake, he only wants the best for you. He's just clumsy with his words, especially when he's talking to women. I'm sure Agrias could tell you a whole slew of stories which proves that."

The oblique reminder that Ramza and Agrias still had each other stung for a moment, but Alma forcibly redirected her thoughts to a memory that was more to her liking...

...namely, how she'd witnessed Ramza delicately - which, given Ramza's standards, wasn't saying much - asking Agrias if she might be carrying twins and how he'd come away with a black eye. That notion brought a smile, a smile tinged with envy but a smile nonetheless, to the Beoulve girl's face.

"That's better," Reis spoke up. "I know that Drake can be quite idiotic when he's worried. And, believe me, he got an earful after his display last night. Still, as mutton-headed as he can be, he's doing this because he cares for you and wants what's best for you and your baby. So do I, and I mean that from the bottom of my heart, Catherine."

The Beoulve girl was silent for a long moment as she pondered the dragonkin's words, however reluctantly. Yes, in some part of herself, well hidden by how her pregnancy had her emotions tied in knots, she did know that Ramza did care for her. He had been shocked to find her pregnant by a man who now numbered amongst the legions of dead from the War of the Lions, but he'd never once tried to get her to terminate the pregnancy or suggest that the baby be dumped on another's doorstep to save her reputation, as Manon and Charlotte very well might have been. Agrias had also been supportive as well, saying that little Rachel would enjoy having a cousin. Still, though this did make the wound over her heart ache a bit less, it would never be truly gone. Ramza's words from the night before had driven that point home, however unwittingly.

_Treasure your memories with him, but accept that fact…_

_He is dead and gone…_

_Dead and gone…_

Remembering her brother's words, and how the truth behind them pained her more than anything Altima had inflicted, Alma's grief finally proved overwhelming. She buried her face in her hands over and wept. Deep down, and as agonizing a truth as it was, she knew that Ramza and Reis were right. No matter how much she loved Izlude, she had to accept the fact that he was gone and move on with her life.

Her child, _their_ child, needed his or her mother. And, even if no man could fill the void Izlude had left in her heart, Izlude's child needed a father.

Nothing could change that, not even the machinations of Lucavi demons or the unfathomable powers of the Zodiac Stones.

Much like when Reis had discovered that the Beoulve girl was with child, she drew Alma into a gentle embrace, with Manon and Charlotte promptly joining in. Though the two children were delightfully warm, the almost reptilian coldness of Reis's skin acted to drive home the cold, hard truth that she would have to choose a husband, and soon.

Before Alma could think on it at much length, the small unlikely family heard a knock at the door. Reluctant to let go of Alma just yet, the dragonkin turned to the two young attendants. Manon, exhausted from his impromptu vigil-at-arms after an already long evening at the ball, had nodded off moments before, much to Charlotte's incredulity. However, the two older women gently silenced her, saying Manon likely needed his sleep.

"After all, he owes you another dance or two tonight," Reis pointed out kindly, snickering a bit at the girl's blush. "Also, Charlotte, could you please get the door?"

The girl nodded. "Yes, Lady Reis, right away."

As soon as she got the door open, Charlotte gasped when she saw none other than Queen Ovelia herself standing upon the threshold. The queen was flanked by two maidservants, both of which regarded Charlotte's gawking expression - and, possibly, Charlotte herself - a bit coldly. But, the small girl was too busy gaping in amazement at the radiant queen, whom she hadn't even managed to spy at a distance during the ball, who now stood before her.

When she saw Charlotte, and saw that the girl was well and truly at a loss for words, Ovelia smiled at her in equal parts endearment and amusement before politely asking "May I come in?"

Belatedly realizing that she'd been staring at the queen, and her much her books emphasizing how rude it was to stare, the girl quickly spluttered an apology before stepping aside and hurriedly dipping into a curtsey. "Yes, of course, Your Highness! Forgive me!"

Ovelia, perhaps finding some gentle amusement in how flustered Charlotte was, seemed to glide into the room. She quickly turned to her maidservants and said: "Please leave us; I wish to speak privately with the Duchess of Lionel."

"Yes, Your Highness," they said, then curtsied and left. Obviously skeptical and unimpressed by Lady Catherine's "attendants", one of whom was on her bed and snoring piercingly, it took a stern glance from Ovelia for them to wipe any such hints from their faces. Once the servants were gone, Ovelia turned to Alma and Reis, inclining her head in greeting.

"Oh, Your Highness!" Alma exclaimed as she attempted to stand, but Ovelia held up one hand.

"It's alright, Catherine. Please be at ease."

Alma settled back against her pillows, more than a bit relieved. With everything that had happened of late, and with all that yet loomed ahead, she didn't trust herself to keep her feet had she chosen to rise.

Though Alma and Ovelia had been friends when they were both much younger, and Alma had missed the queen dearly, she also knew that Ovelia was well aware of her pregnancy and the Beoulve girl had not relished the prospect of speaking to the queen while her child's future rested in hands so reluctant.

Ovelia seemed to guess at Alma's thoughts, for she lowered herself onto the bed and grasped Alma's hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze that caused Alma's lip to quiver. Glancing over at the snoring Manon, Ovelia giggled lightly.

"I take it I'll have to wait for a proper introduction?" she asked.

"I'd rather you did," Alma answered, speaking politely but broking no disagreement. "Our budding squire kept watch all through the night after I fainted, and I'd rather he got some rest."

"As you like it," Ovelia said, understanding and a hint of approval in her tone before she turned to Reis. "Thank you for taking care of the Duchess of Lionel, Lady Reis; you have my profound gratitude. If I may, I would like to speak with her alone."

Reis stood up and curtseyed. "Of course, Your Highness. Should I have the children moved? It might be best if you were to discuss matters that are...sensitive."

Even without recalling that Manon and Charlotte already knew about Alma's pregnancy, or at least as much as Alma dared reveal, it was more than obvious what Reis had been referring to. After all, the mystique of the Duchess of Lionel might reach an undesirable level if she were found to be a woman who was, at least officially, dead.

"Why don't you have Charlotte take a nap in your room? She'll likely need some rest before the ball," Alma suggested, noticing that Charlotte's protestations were cut off by a soft yawn. "I think Manon can remain here for the time being."

"Very well," Reis acknowledged. "It's an honor to serve both of you. Please do not hesitate to send for me if needed."

Turning to Alma, Reis gave her a sisterly kiss on the cheek and gently patted her hand before leaving the Beoulve girl in the company of her old friend.

After Reis had left with Charlotte, and with Manon showing no sign of rousing, Ovelia inched closer to Alma and, giving a smile of adoration tinged with desperate longing, she embraced her childhood friend whom she had not seen since before the War of the Lions broke out.

"I've missed you, Alma," she said sadly, the Beoulve girl's true name passing her lips as but a whisper.

"I've missed you too, Ovelia," Alma gushed, only just barely managing not to shout aloud her words. "I was so worried when I heard about your abduction. Drake...Ramza told me everything. I'm so glad you're alright!"

Did a wince cross Ovelia's face at that last remark? Maybe, but it came and went so quickly that Alma could not be certain. Still, Ovelia cupped the back of Alma's head with one hand drew her in to bury her face in the silk about her shoulder.

"You've always been a good friend, Alma," Ovelia said; if she had been distressed by Alma's words, she concealed it expertly. "And, it means a great deal that you care so much, especially with what you must've been through."

She dovetailed her point by placing a warm, finely boned hand on Alma's belly.

"We've been through a lot," Alma said morosely. "We all have. But, even though I've had my share of troubles, and more besides, I've never stopped thinking or worrying about you. I'm so glad you were able to take the throne as Queen in place of Ruvelia. And, I know it's late, but I also wanted to congratulate you on your marriage to Delita."

This time, Alma was certain of it. Ovelia's expression had faulted; briefly, almost invisibly, but this time she had been on the alert and had caught it. Was that why Delita had seemed so distant and why Ovelia's smile had seemed so painted at the ball? Could something have gone wrong in the marriage between one of her best friends and the man who'd been nearly as much her brother as Ramza was?

The thought was disconcerting, and Alma was far from reassured when Ovelia laid a hand on her shoulder and gave a squeeze which carried more a warning to desist than reassurance.

"Thank you, Alma, but this isn't about me," the queen intoned, with no small amount of sternness. "Ramza and I saw how you struggled to even look any of your suitors in the eye, and we're both concerned for you. I've heard more than enough horror stories from Agrias to know that Ramza has all the diplomacy of a behemoth that's gotten into the wine cellar."

"Careful, the behemoths might take issue with that," Alma jibed in reply."

"But, we both know his heart is in the right place," Ovelia continued after a moment's laughter. "And, I know that Delita...certainly seems rough around the edges, but he does care. He did arrange all of this, along with your new identities, for you as well as your brother."

The Beoulve's girl's musings about Delita turned a shade darker at Ovelia's words trailing away, and Alma's brow furrowed in perplexity and concern. But, Ovelia's earnest expression and the slight but insistent pressure on her belly was enough to dissuade any probing questions.

"I'm sorry to trouble you so, Your Highness," Alma apologized. "It's just that I'm going through a rather difficult time right now."

"Please, Alma, you know you don't have to call me that when we're alone. Just Ovelia will do. If you are well enough, would you like to get dressed and take a walk with me around the royal gardens?"

To that, Alma finally smiled and for the first time in what felt like years. "I'd love to, Ovelia."

* * *

When the pair finally arrived at the gardens of Lesalia Castle, Ovelia dismissed the staff for the day so she could spend some time alone with Alma.

As Reis had said, it was best to have few ears about in case they needed to discuss anything "sensitive".

Having seen the castle gardens when she'd accompanied Zalbag to Lesalia on a day that seemed half a lifetime ago, Alma remembered the gardens as being little more than a dry and withered shadow of what they'd once been.

Not unlike Ivalice over the past half century, she reflected broodingly.

During the war, with nearly every copper the already beggared kingdom could scrape together going towards the war effort, not to mention the incessant violence between Lesalian natives and the deluge of refugees, the castle gardens had been largely neglected, their onetime beauty yet another casualty of the war over the vacant throne. Following Goltana's sacking of Lesalia and his capture of Ruvelia for her role as a key player in Ovelia's abduction and near-assassination, the castle itself had been left in disarray, much of its staff having been killed, fled, or taken by Goltana's host as live booty, leaving far too few to maintain it. Those servants and guards who'd managed to escape had renounced their loyalty to the former queen in order to safeguard their own lives, and no one could blame them. It wasn't until after Delita took power and the war ended that the former servants and guards had been invited back to resume their original posts, as well as offered clemency for their prior allegiances, in exchange for swearing fealty and loyalty to King Delita. Unsurprisingly, nearly all had accepted. This also made it much easier to restore Lesalia Castle's former splendor, as the remainder of the original staff had worked there for years and knew how to maintain it, and also proved quite able at instructing the new faces amongst their number who were hired to fill up the ranks.

As soon as they found a stone bench near the edge of a small pond in the middle of the garden, Ovelia sat down and patted the smooth surface, inviting Alma to join her. After the Beoulve girl had made herself comfortable, or at least as much so as she might get while the dilemma of her uncertain future and the conundrum of Delita and Ovelia's possible estrangement weighing on her, she thanked her old friend for her hospitality. The two young women let their eyes roam over the vista of trees, flowers, and rippling grass before them, marveling at the masterful work the staff had done in restoring the garden to its former beauty over the last few months.

"It's beautiful," Alma said feelingly. "Thank you for inviting me out here."

Ovelia laughed. "Thank you. This garden is my favorite place to be when I need someplace to think or relax alone. I'm glad you've decided to come out today. So, how are you feeling now, Alma?"

"Better. I feel awful for having troubled Lady Reis again with my fainting spell, not to mention Manon and Charlotte. This is the second time Lady Reis stayed up all night for me. And, putting Manon and Charlotte through the same was even worse. You saw how they could barely keep their eyes open when you came in."

"I see, but it didn't look like any of them minded. I may not know your other friends well, aside from Agrias, but I do know that they care about you. When Agrias learned about Ramza's...missteps the night before, she nearly bit his head off."

Alma allowed a giggle to escape her, recalling all too well that Agrias had been no less ferocious after her pregnancy than the nigh-terrifying instances she'd witnessed before Rachel had been born.

That brief laughter trailed away, however, when Alma realized this also meant that Ramza and Agrias had gotten into a fight over her. And, the holy knight's temper was a thing nigh-demonic in and of itself.

"Please, don't blame yourself," Ovelia interjected, silencing any further unspoken self-recrimination. "Ramza was at fault for choosing his words so poorly. Still, he's just concerned about you. I'm very concerned too. It can't be easy trying to find a husband on such short notice, especially after..."

Ovelia didn't finish the sentence. She hardly needed to, and Alma was glad of it.

Whatever his intent, Ramza had done an admirable job of causing fresh blood to well from the wound of Izlude's death.

"It isn't. You're right about that, Ovelia. I just wish there was another way…"

The queen frowned as she gently cupped her friend's cheek. "So do I. But, you cannot live a life alone, Alma! Especially with a child on the way! You still have two nights left; promise me you'll give at least _one_ of your suitors a chance."

Here, the queen paused and, seeming to make a difficult decision, heaved a sigh before continuing.

"I know it's hard, asking someone who's bereaved to give their heart again," she began gravely. "And, I'm not saying the pain you're feeling now will ever truly go away, but you might be able to find another man you care for. After all, your father married your niece's namesake after losing his first wife."

"You have a good memory," Alma remarked, but in a non-committal tone.

"I know it may sound harsh to say, but there are many other men out there. Most of them have come a long way, and I can tell they're very eager to impress. Maybe, just maybe, one of them is someone you can come to love. It's a gamble, but your father took the chance when he decided he wanted to marry your mother. It cannot have been an easy decision for Sir Balbanes, since he'd already lost his first wife, but look how it turned out for them. You told me yourself they were very happy together. Sir Balbanes chose to take that gamble, to find a second chance at happiness. I'm asking you, for your child's sake, to take the same chance he did."

"I…," Alma didn't know what to say. She didn't want to seem ungrateful for everything her friends had done for her, not anymore than she had already, at least. But, as Ovelia herself had admitted, Alma would be taking a gamble. The Beoulve girl knew her parents had adored each other, but she also knew that her mother's family had ranked so far beneath her father's that she'd been called a courtesan behind her back...sometimes by her stepsons. Yet, that gamble had led to a happy marriage, even if neither had lived nearly as long as they should have. And, taking that same gamble was her child's best chance to avoid the life of an outcast. Yet, it was so hard for Alma to even envision someone taking Izlude's place that such a promise seemed impossible, even with her best friend very nearly pleading with her to try.

Ovelia, on the other hand, feared for Alma's future should it become known she was pregnant out of wedlock. For as long as she could remember, the Beoulve girl had always been a generous soul, eager to do what she could to help another, and a reasonable woman who was willing to heed another's council, especially when something important was at stake.

"Look, Alma, I know this isn't going to be easy. Our lives have never been, not even when we were younger. Do you remember when we first met, and how unhappy you were? I never forgot that. I'd never had much of a family, so I could barely imagine what it must have been like, losing so many you cared for in less than a year. But, I know what it is to be lonely. To feel alone, and to think you always will be. But, we still managed to endure some harsh times together. You remember, don't you?" Ovelia asked as she gently placed a hand on Alma's shoulder.

Alma sighed and nodded before placing her hand on top of Ovelia's. "Of course, Ovelia. How could I forget? You were the first real friend I had when I came to live at Orbonne."

* * *

_Alone in her austere room at Orbonne Monastery, Alma clapped a hand over her mouth as she tried to stifle the sound of her own weeping. Not even two days had passed since the tragedy at Fort Zeakden, and her brothers, her older half-brothers, had already sent her to Orbonne with neither an explanation nor an apology._

_Not that she had expected either from Dycedarg, of course. He'd never liked her, and this latest tragedy had done nothing to soften his foreboding exterior nor his harsh demeanor. No, it had been Zalbag's actions which had surprised her. Prior to his return, rumors had begun to trickle in that Teta, who had been mistaken for a daughter of House Beoulve by the Corpse Brigade, had been used as a human shield in a desperate bid by her captors to stave off the encroaching Hokuten, only for a Limberry squire to shoot straight through her heart with a crossbow..._

_...on Zalbag's direct order._

_Her heart had skipped a beat and her mind had roiled with denial. She'd told herself that Zalbag, her doting older half-brother, would never order the death of someone he considered family. Yet, when she'd run up to Zalbag and asked, his eyes had darted away from hers for a split-second before narrowing and regarding her harshly._

_She could literally feel the blood run cold in her veins._

_Unable to bear speaking with Zalbag further, barely able to tolerate being in the same room with him, she'd inquired elsewhere and her horror was compounded when she'd learned from one of the surviving soldiers who'd witnessed the events that Delita, who had been kneeling over Teta's body when the abandoned fortress had exploded, was also presumed dead even though his body had yet to be found. And, as if all that hadn't been enough, Dycedarg had subsequently called a family meeting, a term Alma found equal parts ironic and distasteful and announced that her favorite brother, Ramza, still lived but had chosen not to return home. According to the reports that had been given by returning members of Zalbag's host, the youngest son of House Beoulve, and his fellow Hokuten cadets had deserted the knighthood and left for parts unknown._

_Dycedarg had been unimpressed by the act, calling Ramza naive and coddled overmuch, and saying that some time out in the world would help him learn and accept some harsh truths. Alma, despite her disbelief that her favorite brother would desert her now after they'd lost both Delita and Teta, had found a small measure of comfort in the news that he yet lived..._

_...but, it was very small indeed._

_Unfortunately, the knowledge that Ramza still lived did little to ease the pain of losing her best friend and a man who was nearly as much her brother as Ramza himself. And, that pain was made all the worse, not only because Ramza had left her to mourn alone but because of the sheer senselessness of the tragedy. Teta could have been rescued, and Delita could've returned alive, and yet both had instead been callously sacrificed for no other reason than that of convenience. Too late did she realize that Dycedarg had never intended to rescue Teta in the first place and ordered Zalbag to do whatever it took to crush the Corpse Brigade. That he had done so only at the cost of Teta's and Delita's lives didn't even cause the eldest Beoulve to bat an eye, and his and Zalbag's describing the episode as a "necessary sacrifice", as though both lives had been little more than pawns on a chess board offered up to lure the enemy into a fatal blunder, had made her recoil in horror._

_Alma even began to think that Dycedarg would not have hesitated to sacrifice_ her _if she had been in Teta's place on that fateful day, especially with their father gone._

_"Teta…," Alma sniffed as she whimpered her dead friend's name to the empty air about her, the pain of not only loss but of loneliness strangling her voice to a choked sob as she, now more alone than she'd ever been, felt the tide of grief engulf her anew._

_"Umm… what's wrong? Are you all right?" an unfamiliar voice rang out._

_Alma gasped as she raised her head and her still watery eyes darted about, seeking the owner of the voice. At first, she thought it was only her imagination playing tricks on her until she spotted the blonde head of another girl, very near her in age, gazing down at her in concerned perplexity from the bunk bed above her own. In her grief, Alma never realized that she was not alone in the room Father Simon has assigned her upon her arrival at Orbonne that morning._

_Forgetting her grief, if only momentarily, Alma asked "Who are you? I didn't know there was anyone else here."_

_"Me? My name is Ovelia. Ovelia Atkascha. What's yours?"_

_Alma stared at her, jaw creaking open. "Atkascha? Are you a member of the royal family? What are you doing here? I thought all the royals lived at Lesalia Castle."_

_Ovelia shook her head. "Not all of them; I was sent here not long after I was born, and have been living here ever since. What about you?"_

_Alma hesitated for a moment before answering, old ghosts stirring at the question. "My name is Alma Beoulve. My older brothers sent me here just today. When I asked, they refused to tell me why. They only said that it was for the best."_

_The girl named Ovelia raised an eyebrow. "Beoulve? You're Balbanes Beoulve's daughter?"_

_"Yes. I'm sure you've heard my father passed away a year ago. Unless you never get news of the outside world here at the monastery? This place seems so far from...well, everything."_

_"I do hear some news from time to time. Every few days, messengers from the king arrive to check up on me. They often compensate the monks for my upkeep with supplies they cannot produce in their own gardens, and share news of the outside world."_

_"I see…"_

_"Cheer up, Alma. Living here isn't all that bad. Father Simon treats everyone here like family, including me. I'm sure he'll be good to you as well."_

_And with that, Ovelia climbed down from her bunk and, for the first time of what would prove to be many, drew Alma into a reassuring embrace._

_"I know this might sound a little selfish, but I'm happy to have you here," Ovelia admitted. "In fact, you're the first girl my age I've seen in a long time."_

_Perhaps it was her desperation for a touch of human compassion. Maybe it was the earnest sincerity in Ovelia's young voice. It might also have been how this girl, secreted away in this rainy backwater when she should've been in the opulence of the royal castle, was as alone as Alma herself was and yet cared enough to offer what small comfort she could. Whatever the reason, hearing these words finally broke Alma out of her grief, if only for a moment. "Thank you, Your Highness."_

_Ovelia shook her head. "Please, you don't have to call me that. Just Ovelia will do."_

_"Okay then, Ovelia."_

_The princess smiled. "I think we're going to be good friends, Alma. Whatever you may be going through now, just know that it will get better. I promise you."_

_Even though Alma had never laid eyes on the other blonde girl before today, she nevertheless found some comfort in Ovelia's words. She still grieved for Teta and Delita, still missed Ramza, and still felt profoundly betrayed by Dycedarg and Zalbag. But, at least she wasn't alone anymore._

_And, somehow, that sliver of silver lining amidst a seeming world of storm clouds was enough to ease the weight of her mourning. Not entirely, nor even by much, but just enough that the days ahead looked less bleak than they did but hours before._

_"You're right, Ovelia. Thank you."_

_Since that day, the two girls had become inseparable and were rarely seen outside the company of each other. Although they adored their guardian and mentor, Father Simon, the girls also loved playing affectionate pranks on him, such as over-sweetening his morning coffee and "misplacing" his quills and books. Though the pair would always make it up to him later, the way his aged face faulted at each and every prank, even those he'd surely come to expect, never failed to delight the two girls. They also loved sneaking out of the monastery at night, sometimes to look at the stars or to stay up late to read books together. For four years they lived like this until a few months before the outbreak of the War of the Lions when, to her astonishment and trepidation, news reached Alma that she was to return to Igros and live with her half-brothers...at Dycedarg's request._

_Knowing her eldest brother, Alma was sure the only reason he wanted her to return was so that he could marry her off to a son of one of his allies. Dycedarg was an unscrupulous and calculating man, and it was a rare thing indeed for him to decide that any price was too high where his political ambitions were concerned. Alma knew that arguing with him would do no good, and quickly decided that appealing to Zalbag would be pointless. She had very nearly been resigned to her fate when, to her stupefaction, Ramza had reappeared in her life. He'd spun a wild story about Delita having survived, of the abduction of Ovelia, and shadowy forces manipulating the war from behind the curtain. Yet, as fanciful as it all sounded, Alma knew her brother well and knew that he had about as much a gift for deception as a rabbit. So, before her unwanted marriage could take place, the Beoulve girl took the opportunity to run away with Ramza and, in a series of events even more bizarre than he'd relayed, she'd found herself captured by a handsome dark-haired, green-eyed Templar who would eventually become the love of her life…_

* * *

"Yes, I remember," Alma answered, unable to keep either a hint of nostalgia or a longing for simpler times from her tone as she and Ovelia returned to the present. "So much has happened since I left Orbonne. It's ironic how much I regret having to leave you, considering how much I opposed my brothers' decision to send me there in the first place."

"I know. And, I was disappointed to see you leave as well. But I did not once regret having met you and I've always been very grateful to have known you. I still feel that way, even with...everything that's happened."

As the queen's words trailed away, her gaze alighted upon her wedding ring and a morose sigh parted her lips. This hint of disconsolation came and went seemingly in the blink of an eye, but Alma had kept her eyes wide open.

Now, she was certain of it. Something was troubling Ovelia, and it had something to do with Delita or the state of her marriage. Or both.

And, whatever it was, Alma feared it was serious.

Perhaps Ovelia sensed that she'd let something slip, for she promptly composed herself and said "You're probably one of the few friends I've had. And, more than anything, I wish for you to be happy; you and your child both."

"And I appreciate it, Ovelia. But, what about you? Are you happy? We both know that your life has been harsh. It is still like that?"

The queen was silent for a moment as she tried to think of how to answer her friend.

"I… am content," she said, but quickly noticed Alma's skeptical expression. "Delita and I may not agree on everything he's done. And...well, I think we both know that he's done a few things, too many things, that are reprehensible. I won't deny that I've lost a night or two of sleep over it. But, in spite of all that, I do feel that he has the country's best interest at heart. He's also taken such good care of me and protected me when my need was dire, I don't think I could really ask for anything more. His willingness to help you and your brother is also something I'm grateful for."

Reis had sometimes jokingly claimed that pregnant women were psychic creatures, but Alma had found herself wondering if the dragonkin might have struck on something. Maybe it was how carrying her baby had caused each sensation, be it the height of transcendent joy to the depths of anger and despair, to become more potent. Perhaps an offshoot of her burgeoning maternal instincts, which had spurred her to take in Manon and Charlotte, had also extended to Ovelia who was clearly under much strain and had always lacked for companionship. Whatever the reason, Alma found herself doubting Ovelia's words.

Granted, the Beoulve girl knew that her best friend would not deliberately lie to her. And yet, despite that, Alma felt that there was something Ovelia was not telling her. What's more, she could not help but suspect that the queen was downplaying the toll that Delita's deeds had taken on her, and rather energetically too. Still, it seemed doubtful that Ovelia would elaborate, given that Alma's pregnancy left her in such a delicate condition. And though Alma was loathed to admit it, it was not her place to press the queen into revealing anything she did not wish to.

Could Ramza have sensed something similar? It would explain why he'd seemed so worried and overwrought, well beyond what Alma's reluctance to be married off to a stranger could cause him. Perhaps, since Ramza and Delita had been brothers in all but blood - and, hopefully, the same yet held true today - he might have better luck discerning what was going on.

 _Ah, does the phrase "behemoth in the wine cellar" mean anything to you?_ her inner voice asked with biting sarcasm.

Alma chided herself. Granted, Ramza was impulsive, impatient, and could stand to learn such novel concepts as foresight and tact, but, for all his faults he was still a fine man who, like Delita, held the well-being of Ivalice and her people more dear to him than his own life.

Assuming he didn't somehow reignite the War of the Lions, perhaps Ramza's infamous luck would let him get to the bottom of this.

"I suppose you're right," she said, though she found herself less certain of that than she'd been a day prior. "With how Delita was able to resettle so many of the people displaced by the war, and how his commerce policies have allowed so many people to have better lives than their parents did, I truly have seen that things are getting better since he took power. I know it could take years, but I have faith that Ivalice will be a better place under his rule."

It took Ovelia a telling split-second before she nodded her agreement.

Telling, and more than a bit unsettling.

"Yes, I want to believe in my husband too," Ovelia affirmed, though Alma had a grim presentiment that, though Ovelia wanted to have that faith, it yet eluded her. "Anyway, are you hungry, Alma? Delita has hired a new Romandan chef and I heard he makes these truly amazing desserts from his country. I've heard that one of them, the 'Ptichie Moloko' or Bird's Milk Cake, is a thick slice of marshmallow covered in a layer of chocolate. I hadn't tried it yet, but I caught sight of the batch he was making and, I swear, they had my mouth watering."

Alma could believe it...especially when Ovelia playfully pointed at her chin, said "Yes, just like that", and obligingly produced a handkerchief.

"Sorry," Alma spluttered, more amused than embarrassed as she wiped her chin. "Still, that sounds delectable."

"I thought you might say that," Ovelia replied knowingly. "I've yet to try out any of his dishes myself, but since you are here, I figured there would be no better time than now. I'd also like to hear about your little squire and his lady while we dine."

Alma smiled and laughed softly, her myriad predicaments forgotten for the moment as the thought of a sweet dessert made her mouth water anew.

"I'd love to, Ovelia."


	21. To Court a Duchess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hi, this is Elly3981, co-writer and editor for Falchion1984 and I'd like to apologize for the wait in updating this story which has been a long-term project for both of us. We would like to thank those who have been following our story since we started it for your patience and hope that we don't disappoint with this latest installment. Like the last chapter, this one also turned out longer than we thought so we've decided to split it in 2-3 parts. As I am currently editing the next chapter, it will be out shortly so look forward to it. In the meantime, we hope you enjoy what we've got and please review! Once again, I would like to thank Falchion1984 for his help in making this fic possible. Please follow our story on Archive of our Own that includes some illustrations we can't post on Fanfiction dot Net.

Though it has been said often, and by a veritable infinity of voices, it nonetheless bears repeating that Lesalia's leading commodity was not its glittering gold, its gleaming jewels, its beautiful music, its breathtaking art, its moving plays, and operas, or its stately gardens.

Its leading commodity was gossip.

And, following the first ball in which the new Duchess of Lionel had made her debut on the social stage, this veritable epicenter of tittle-tattle, conjecture, whispers, canards, tidbits, and hearsay was in rare form.

Whether the words escaped the lips of those who had seen the enigmatic duchess face-to-face, from a distance, or only vicariously through the heated recollections of fellow gossipers, each and all said the same thing.

Tales and songs of Duchess Catherine Seymour's beauty had fallen utterly short.

Up and down the streets echoed accounts of her stunning blue eyes and the inviting, rosy hue of her cheeks.

Many an avenue rang with admiration of the silken coils of crimson that were her hair, woven into elegant braids that framed her generous breasts and reached out like an extra hand to offer a parting caress to a suitor as their paths diverged.

Accounts of her angelic voice resonated down boulevards like so many pealing bells, some longing to hear that same voice reach a new crescendo whilst engaged in... Activities best not discussed in public.

"Really, now!" an older woman, likely the mother of one of the duchess's would-be suitors, exclaimed as she chastised a younger man who'd been speaking in excited tones and... Lurid words. "Just because I told you I wanted some grandchildren doesn't mean I wanted _all_ the details!"

The young man in question blushed as he'd belatedly realized just how unseemly he'd sounded after getting carried away with his burgeoning obsession with the mysterious duchess. And, when he noticed that several of his fellow contenders were stifling laughter behind their palms, he blushed much more profusely.

Yet, amidst all the awe, wonderment, infatuation, lust, and hopes that affection may yet bloom, there was also perplexity that, though many eligible bachelors had flung themselves at Duchess Seymour's feet - literally, in one or two instances - none of these earnestly urged suits had any discernible effect. Oh, granted, Duchess Seymour had shown no obvious sign of repulsion or distaste towards any who'd approached her, and she had conversed politely and danced with each and all prospective suitors.

But, that was all.

There had been compliments aplenty heaped upon her, and yet there had been no blush nor shy giggling to denote that such words had proven sweet to her ear. There had been finely attired men, who nigh-literally wore their wealth in order to eclipse their peers, and yet there had been no overt sign that the duchess had noticed such copious finery. There had been tales of men who'd won their wealth, rather than inherited it, and more than a few of these tales involved feats of great courage, and yet, even though the duchess had likely been moved by those who'd aided people in need amidst their derring-do, the words she'd offered in reply had been few and betrayed no hint of desire for those who had authored their own tales of heroism and fortune.

So, a horde of suitors had descended upon the duchess, each and all afire with dreams of claiming her hand, and yet all had come away without eliciting so much as a glimmer from those sky blue orbs.

Most were keen to try again, too inflamed by passion and ardor to admit defeat so easily, while others, whose egos were more fragile, had ended the disappointing night by seeking solace at the bottom of a tankard of ale. All, however, were most confused by these events.

With so many fine men to choose from, how could every last one of them have failed so miserably, and for no discernible reason?

Yet, for all the babbling voices that overflowed the city and filled every ear to the brim with tales of the Duchess of Lionel and the inexplicable failure of even one of her admirers in winning the barest hint of her good graces, none could provide an explanation.

All they could do was wait until they could make another sally for the duchess's attentions, whiling away the time in gossip as the sun meandered its way across the sky with agonizing slowness.

* * *

As Izlude made his way down the cobblestoned street, passing what felt like the hundredth gaggle of people conversing about Duchess Seymour, he brought up a hand to his mouth, seemingly stifling a yawn. One might mistake his gesture for one of either indifference towards the gossipers, or the subject of their gossip, or for the simple fatigue that tempted early risers to linger abed a little longer.

As was aforementioned, however, such assumptions would be a mistake. With so many young men vying for Alma's hand - unsuccessfully, much to his relief - displaying too much interest in the Duchess of Lionel might raise unwanted questions. And, though the disguised knight blade did believe his persona as Damien Mitchell could hold up under scrutiny, he wasn't anxious to test that theory needlessly.

So, feigning indifference towards the gossip while, in truth, hanging on every word, he made his way back to the tailor shop where he knew, or at least hoped, that Pat Mowett, the chief tailor, would have his clothes and ceremonial armor ready for the ball. Though his belated arrival made it impossible for him to attend the first night, the local gossip suggested that his fellow suitors had little to show for arriving first. What's more, there were still two more galas, and Izlude hoped that he would soon have all he needed to capture the attention of Duchess "Catherine Seymour".

Still, by the sound of it, though his fellow suitors had made little progress, they wouldn't give up so easily.

Not wanting to wade through a horde of would-be-suitors while picking up or being fitted for clothes, and having to deflect or bluff his way through a hail of potentially explosive questions, the knight blade thought it best to check with Pat as soon as the shop opened. Although the chief tailor had assured him that the majority of the young men seeking the hand of the duchess had already come and gone, Izlude decided not to take any chances. Since the inn where he was boarding was nearby, Izlude chose to leave Nelly in the stables and walk back to the tailor shop. After so many days of travel spent in a carriage or saddle, he felt the chance to walk would do him some good.

And, after having borne the knight blade hither and yon during his journey, including the attempt to outrun a veritable wall of surging floodwater, Izlude imagined that Nelly would appreciate a day of rest.

Apart from getting the blood flowing to his legs, which had once felt so numb that he sometimes wondered if they were still attached, he also relished the chance to see Lesalia while the ball was ways off.

And, what he saw gladdened his heavy heart.

The city where he'd grown up had changed, that was true, and much of what he remembered from the halcyon days of childhood had been lost to the flames of war. Yet, what remained, and what had risen from the ashes, teased a smile from his lips. Here and there, some shops and businesses from bygone days had managed to weather the storm and, though their store fronts were battered and traces of soot yet lingered, they did a brisk business. In other places, those establishments that had failed under the weight of poverty and bloodshed had been replaced by new ones, the rubble of prior misfortune having been swept away, mostly, and newly minted proprietors were showcasing their wares with pride.

The markets had seen better days, for the stands and goods were not as lavish as Izlude remembered. Yet, what did that matter when weighed against the fact that, where once these markets were empty of goods and those few who'd visited them despaired of finding their next meal, there were now many a staple product at hand and priced well within the means of those who, though still bruised and bleeding from war, yet stood unbroken.

It would be some time before the cobblestoned streets were mended, let alone shining like great streams of silver as they'd once been reputed to. Yet, the sight of children playing freely, even as they stumbled in the ruts, made that imperfection seem a small thing indeed.

After some rumination of these signs of healing, so small and yet so uplifting, Izlude once more found himself thinking that, however his bid for Alma's hand ended, he was glad that the Pisces Stone undoing his death allowed him to see days like these. Still, though he wished he could watch this panorama of rebirth at greater length, there would time enough for that later, once he had reunited with his one true love.

As soon as he stepped inside the shop, the knight blade noticed that, contrary to his and Pat's expectations, there was another customer seeking the chief tailor's services. The customer was a young man, who had quite a bit of boyishness still in evidence as his eyes, bright with intellect and youth alike, darted back and forth between his reflection and the attire offered by the shop. Though the face swiveled much too fast for Izlude to attach a name to it, the machinist attire he wore soon called to mind the name of a man he'd battled against and then trailed some months before.

 _It can't be…_ Izlude thought. Surely, it couldn't be Mustadio Bunanza, the young man who'd been in Ramza's company when he was shadowing the accused heretic months earlier, could it?

The last time Izlude saw him, Mustadio had sported a short ponytail, but this young man had nothing of the sort. What's more, though the young man had the same short blonde hair, it was cut differently than Izlude remembered, and slicked back in a manner that called to mind stories of the airborne corsairs that pillaged and plundered amongst the clouds in the Ivalice of antiquity. Wanting to confirm his suspicion, but without arousing any on the other man's part, the knight blade composed his words carefully before questioning him.

"Excuse me, sir," Izlude began politely. "I hope you will forgive me for asking, but are you also here to acquire some clothing for the ball at the castle?"

At the sudden inquiry, Mustadio jumped in surprise, spinning in the air and landing, somewhat clumsily, to face Izlude. Pasting on an apologetic grin, which was not entirely feigned, Izlude found himself wondering at just how effective the holy stone's disguise would prove. But, a moment later, he shook off the notion. After all, if it had fooled Donavan, who'd known Izlude man and boy, it ought to prove more than a match for Mustadio's scrutiny, especially since, though they had crossed paths at the battle at Orbonne Monastery, several months and many battles had since passed. Izlude very much doubted that Mustadio would recognize him. After all, the knight blade barely recognized the machinist, and that was largely due to him lacking his customary ponytail.

"Oh, you startled me, sir!" the young machinist gasped as he placed a hand on his chest.

"My apologies, sir, I shouldn't have sneaked up on you like that. Please, forgive me."

Mustadio gave a light-hearted laugh. "It's quite all right, I don't mind. To answer your question, yes, I did come to pick up some clothes I ordered made for the ball tonight. How about yourself?"

"Same here. I take it you're keen on catching the eye of the new Duchess of Lionel?"

Mustadio shook his head, though this hardly came as a surprise. In fact, Izlude was rather hoping that that the machinist had different plans, and not just because Izlude had quite enough competition for Alma's hand already.

After all, if Donavan's tale was to be believed, Izlude might very well be speaking to his future brother-in-law.

 _Well, let's not get too far ahead of ourselves,_ his more rational mind warned.

But, then again, the knight blade had heeded that voice precious few times since falling in love with his own captive. Still, Donavan's story had painted quite a picture, of how Meliadoul had returned from the war, her family lost and with the bittersweet taste of vengeance having proven unsatisfactory, until a certain machinist's fumbling had put a smile back on her face.

Of course, that, and Mustadio being a brilliant machinist and a crack shot with a gun, was literally all Izlude knew about the man. And, what sort of brother would he be if he didn't vet his sister's admirers?

"Oh, no. As lovely as the Duchess is, I've got my sights set on another fine lady," Mustadio declared, and it was all the knight blade could do to keep his expression from betraying more than casual interest.

Izlude raised a brow. "And, if I may ask, who might that be?"

The young machinist blushed, as though recalling how he'd been noticed by the prettiest girl in the city...which, Izlude had to admit, wasn't far from the truth.

"Believe it or not, my heart is set on Dame Meliadoul Tingel, the new commander of the Knights Templar."

 _So, it is as I suspected…_ Izlude mused, his inner voice taking on a vaguely sinister edge as he elected to press Mustadio for more details. Having met the machinist only once - and when the pair had been quite intent on killing each other, no less - Izlude was more than a bit curious as to whether Mustadio was good enough for his older sister, especially since the normally indomitable Meliadoul was surely vulnerable and lonely after having lost her family...Izlude's secret resurrection notwithstanding.

Besides, although it was normally uncharacteristic of him, the knight blade couldn't help teasing the other young man a little.

"Dame Tingel? That's quite ambitious of you. I hear she's quite ferocious."

Instead of being put off by Izlude's remark, Mustadio simply scratched the back of his head and laughed, albeit nervously.

"I know she's no frail maid. And, that she's a wealthy noblewoman in her own right while I am but a humble machinist. And, I swear, when I decided to see her after the war, and found where she lived, just knocking on the door of that huge estate must've given me a gray hair or two. Heck, even the old gardener made me nervous with how I could always feel his eyes on me."

"Old Donavan may chatter like a magpie, but he's harmless," Izlude blurted out reflexively, only belatedly realizing just how ill-advised such words might prove.

After all, though it made perfect sense for Izlude Tingel to know that Donavan loved gossip as much as any native-born Lesalian, explaining how Damien Mitchell knew that wouldn't be nearly as simple.

The knight blade began to fumble for an explanation that might snuff out the perplexity even now gathering in Mustadio's inquisitive eyes, and then nearly kicked himself when he realized he already had one.

 _Yup, just made for spycraft, I was,_ he mused self-deprecatingly.

"I stopped by the Tingel estate on behalf of the Knights Templar," Izlude said, taking pains to inject casual amusement into his words. "Dame Meliadoul was out, but the old gardener insisted on entertaining me as best he could. He told me about the time you and she had spent together and..."

Recalling such hilarious oddities as Mustadio cooking Meliadoul lunch, and getting a goodly portion of the meal on the ceiling, Izlude felt his throat seize up with laughter until, unable to hold it in any longer, he let out a guffaw so thunderous that it caused his eyes to water. His vision cleared in plenty of time to see the machinist glaring at him, which stopped Izlude's mirth cold and caused a jumble of apologetic words to tumble from his lips before he noticed that Mustadio's seemingly downturned lips were subtly tugging upwards at the corners.

The machinist, it seemed, had a far thicker skin than his boyish looks would suggest. And a greater degree of deviousness as well, if he'd elected to trick Izlude into thinking he'd given offense.

"Oh, very funny," the knight blade snorted, though he was not truly displeased at Mustadio's impishness.

After all, such antics had reportedly put a smile on Meliadoul's face, which was surely no simple task of late.

Still, though the machinist seemed like a decent fellow, Izlude decided he needed to learn a bit more about him.

 _After all, what sort of brother would I be if he didn't haze...I mean vet a man vying for my sister's heart?_ He thought playfully.

"So, did you met Dame Meliadoul during the war?" he asked, taking care to keep his tone one of friendly, but casual interest.

"Yes," Mustadio confirmed. "I fought alongside Drake Seymour, the new Duke of Lionel. Dame Meliadoul joined us for a time, and..."

Here, the machinist's words trailed off and a dreamy, boyish grin dawned on his features. This, the knight blade found surprising since, even though the information provided by the church about Ramza and his companions could be called dubious at best, he was well aware that each and all were seasoned combatants. Incongruous though it might seem for someone who'd seen too much death in too short a time, it was nonetheless endearing that such a young man with such a tumultuous past still had it in him to blush and gush over a pretty girl.

"And, I just couldn't get her out of my head," Mustadio went on. "She's smart, and brave, and..."

"Pretty?" Izlude asked, as much to egg the simpering man on as to assess his intentions.

"Beautiful!" Mustadio blurted out, loudly enough that Mowett glanced over irritably. "Her eyes, her hair! And, her smile? Ahhhh! I swear, I'd been trying to make her smile, just once, since I'd met her, and finally seeing it made me as giddy as a schoolboy."

"And, how's that different than usual?"

"Oh, shut up! But, seriously, ever since I first laid eyes on her, I was enchanted!"

"Even when she was trying to kill you?"

Again, the knight blade had been so heady with the simple pleasure of riling Mustadio that his tongue escaped the grasp of his better judgment. Though he'd witnessed the battle between Ramza's band and Meliadoul's retinue of Templars, and though the memory of his sister's brush with death yet haunted his nightmares, Mustadio might find it hard to believe that Damien Mitchell just "happened" to be in Bervenia to witness it.

But, rather than an expression of perplexity or suspicion, the machinist's face betrayed only an inexplicably mild annoyance.

"I swear, these Lesalian gossips have no boundaries!" Mustadio groused. "Donavan letting that slip to a complete stranger behind our backs? I can't believe it!"

 _That makes two of us,_ Izlude mused, genuinely uncertain as to whether he meant that Donavan hadn't been more reticent about Mustadio after hearing that or that Izlude could've possibly gotten that lucky.

The stone gave a warm pulse in his pocket, and the knight blade got the strong mental impression that the stone's enigmatic consciousness was giggling at him.

Still, Izlude brushed it off and, after eyeing the gun on Mustadio's hip, he concluded that he had dodged a bullet. In more ways than one.

"It is true that there was a...terrible misunderstanding between us and the Templars," the machinist continued, and Izlude could not help but wonder at what manner of cover story the cunning Delita would weave to explain away the "misunderstanding". "But...even when I was ducking and weaving away from Meliadoul's blade, all I could think was 'what a woman!'"

 _I might be getting more than I bargained for with this line of questioning,_ the knight blade mused, somewhat disconcerted by the ardor blazing in Mustadio's eyes.

"When she did join us, though, it didn't take long for me to see how sad and lonely she was," the machinist said, sobering. "Not long before, her younger brother was killed in the Riovanes Massacre."

"I heard about that, it was a terrible tragedy," Izlude intoned sadly, and feelingly enough to elicit a curious glance from Mustadio. "I served there, as a knight of the Order of the Wyverns, before I resigned my post. I had a lot of friends in Riovanes Castle, and many of them didn't survive."

The knight blade's eyes misted a bit as he recalled Sir Justin and the true Damien Mitchell, whose name and face he had appropriated and who Izlude privately mourned since no one else did so. Mustadio seemed to assume he'd been referring to the other Wyvern knights who'd been killed and merely nodded in respect.

"I tried to cheer her up with a womanly trifle, some tynar rouge," the machinist went on, scratching the back of his head self-consciously. "I'd actually meant it for another woman, but she was already on another man's arm by the time it reached me. So, there I was, re-gifting a tube of lip rouge to a noblewoman on the off-chance it might cheer her up a bit."

Here, Mustadio's lips curved in the smile worn by one who was far removed from the present moment, savoring something delightful.

"The amazing thing is, it worked," he continued. "She didn't let it on at the time, but I learned she still had the rouge when I went to see her. She even agreed to wear it when we attend the ball together."

"So, Donavan was telling the truth about that," Izlude commented, injecting amazement into his words. "Is...the rest of his story true."

"Well, yes. But, in my defense, she besmirched me and my weapon. Professional pride was at stake!"

The machinist punctuated his words by clapping his hands to his hips and puffing out his chest, no doubt in an attempt to appear bold...but Izlude couldn't help but envision a young lad who'd pilfered a cookie from a batch made for guests under the guise of making sure they'd been baked properly.

Much like Ramza, Mustadio's boyish looks ran quite a bit of interference when he strove to be taken seriously.

"I wanted to make a point to her, but it turns out I made a bigger one than I expected," the machinist continued, and looked like he was about to launch into a drawn out monologue before he apparently reconsidered. "Out of curiosity, how much do you know about guns? How to load them with shot and powder, and the proper stance to use when firing them, for instance?"

"Not a clue," Izlude admitted.

"Yeah, Meliadoul was the same. Loading a gun is tricky business, especially in the middle of a battle, so I decided to prove that point to her. She was in the middle of loading the gunpowder - incorrectly, I might add - before I realized something. I'd loaded and fired my guns so many times, even before the War of the Lions, that it's practically a reflex. But, when I saw Meliadoul loading too much gunpowder, which could've caused the gun to explode in her hand, and then using the wrong stance and getting thrown over backwards by the recoil, it reminded me how I needed to learn how to use a gun properly way back when. That all seemed so long ago, that I'd practically forgotten."

"Understandable. I can barely even imagine a time I didn't know how to use a sword."

"Yeah, exactly. The thing is, just like swords, guns can do a lot of damage if they're mishandled. In fact, it's even truer for guns. Apart from how the gun could explode if you use too much gunpowder, the bullet could fall short if you put in too little. Suppose you're trying to fire at a distant enemy, past an ally, but the bullet falls short and hits your ally instead? And, the black gunpowder currently in use fouls the barrels, making them harder to load and even risking a fatal backfire unless they're cleaned, thoroughly, every few shots."

 _Should I be worried about my sister being widowed too soon?_ Izlude asked himself, more than a bit startled at the machinist's words, and that he hadn't blown his own head off by now.

"Sounds hazardous," he said dryly.

"Yeah," Mustadio admitted, somewhat sheepishly. "In hindsight, challenging Meliadoul to prove her claim about guns being an easy weapon might not have been wise. But, after that, something occurred to me. I know how to use guns, even how to build and maintain them. But, I'm not the only machinist in Ivalice. There are hundreds of others and, sooner or later, all of them are going to figure out how to build guns and will likely start selling them."

"I say again, sounds hazardous."

"It is if you don't know what you're doing, and a lot of people don't. But, like I said, sooner or later, there are going to be a lot of guns for sale. And, as a machinist who knows and respects the technology, I figured I ought to do something to make sure that technology is used properly. So now that the war is over, I've become an entrepreneur of sorts."

The knight blade, never having heard such a word, was confused. "Entrepreneur?"

"An aspiring businessman, or businesswoman."

"And what kind of business are you trying to build?" Izlude asked curiously. "And, how does it relate to making sure people who buy guns don't kill themselves?"

"Well, before I came here, I spent the last few days in town trying to find someone to invest in my new line of firearms and accessories. Powder horns, ammunition pouches, holsters, ramrods, bullets, gunpowder, and a chemical concoction I recently discovered that lets you scour the barrel clean without having to disassemble the gun. Apart from that, I've also been reaching out to those machinists who are selling guns, as well as those who are selling the guns they build to weapon smiths for resale, advising them of my concerns and their professional obligations to listen. Customers killing themselves with your merchandise can't be good for business, after all."

Since Izlude, privately, shared his sister's assertion (former assertion, perhaps) that the gun was too un-chivalrous a weapon for his use, a fair bit of the machinist's speech went over the knight blade's head.

Still, he had to admit, despite Mustadio's boyish appearance calling to mind a child fussing over a gadget the way most children did over toys, his speech had shown that he possessed a strong sense of responsibility for his creations, as well as a keen respect for what they could do in unsuitable hands.

Not unlike how a knight respected his or her sword, and how and why it was repeatedly drummed into them never to use their blade recklessly or for foul purposes.

 _He could stand to be a bit less circumspect, though¸_ he mused sourly.

"So, I've also been having my findings on guns printed and have been urging that they be sold with each gun," Mustadio continued. "I swear, I don't how we got on before that new printing press was invented. Not everyone is taking me seriously just yet, but those that do have agreed to include my 'manual' with each sale. So, apart from that, and the guns and accessories I've been selling myself, I also earn a cut of the proceeds for each sale of my manual, as per my contract with my publisher."

"I see, and it's quite impressive you've been able to accomplish all that so quickly. But, now that the war is over, would that kind of business be successful?"

"I'm sure it would," Mustadio insisted, his words ablaze with youthful determination. "Even if there is no war, people may still need or want firearms for hunting, sports shooting, or even to protect themselves from roaming monsters or defend their homes against bandits and thieves. I'm pretty sure King Delita would be interested in having them for national defense as well. From what I heard, the Romandan handgunners and pistoliers have already proven that during the Fifty Years War, even if they were thrown back. As it stands, the country is still vulnerable; it's a miracle Ordalia didn't attack us again while we were in the middle of a civil war."

"That does make sense. But, I can't help but wonder if what you propose might not suffice. People might pay for your manual, yes, but that doesn't necessarily mean they'll read it. Especially since there's no shortage of people in Ivalice who don't know how to read. And, you said yourself, a number of people who will likely sell guns have disregarded your advice."

Mustadio nodded. "I know. That's another reason I want to attend the ball, to make a proposal to the king. A knightly order wouldn't hand out their armor and swords to people who haven't proven themselves, so the same might need to hold true with firearms. Maybe some sort of system will be needed to determine ones fitness to sell and/or own guns, not unlike how prospective blacksmiths and apothecaries are tested before being allowed to ply their trade. We might also need a way to evaluate those who wish to buy guns, to make sure they can use them properly. You wouldn't give a sword to someone who holds it by the wrong end, and the same might hold true for someone who can't aim a gun or who will spook and shoot at just about anything...even the ones they seek to protect. Still, I am a machinist, not a legislator. I'm hoping that King Delita will let me meet with his council and, between us, we can figure it out."

"I wish you luck on that," Izlude said as he listened with interest, somehow not surprised at the sincerity of his own words. "I can picture that doing a lot of good, but suppose it doesn't earn you a living? Do you have any other ideas in case that happens?"

The machinist nodded, almost smugly. "As a matter of fact, I do," he answered as he pulled what appeared to be a slice of folded leather.

Curious, Izlude asked "What's that?"

Mustadio grinned as he unfolded the slice of leather to reveal several compartments cut into the material, neatly sewn as though by a masterful leatherworker, before pulling out several bills of Ivalice's newly devised paper currency.

"I call it a 'wallet'," the machinist said proudly. "When I first made it, I originally intended it to be a replacement for the powder horn and ammunition pouches I used during the war. This buttoned pouch here would hold extra bullets while the largest of these leather slits, which were originally sewn shut save for a small section at the end, would hold gunpowder. I had hoped that the gunpowder could be poured into the gun, but I was dismayed when I found that it was too small to hold enough and what powder I could get in there wouldn't pour out the way I wanted. I was going to throw it away when a thought came to me. I undid the bindings that held the slits closed and I stuffed several of my paper gil bills inside, and it ended up being a perfect fit. The bullet pouch also held my coins quite securely."

"That's quite an impressive discovery, considering it was an accident," the knight blade remarked, impressed despite his deprecating tone.

"Hey, you'd be amazed how much has been discovered by accident. Still, since the new paper currency is becoming so widespread, there will be plenty of demand. I'm sure that, as paper money replaces coin gil, every man and woman in Ivalice will be wanting one of these wallets to hold their money. Personally, I found it so much more convenient than wearing pouches of coin gil on my belt, not to mention lighter. When I consulted a leather worker I know, he also suggested that various designs were possible. Take this one here."

Mustadio held the wallet up for Izlude to see and then folded it in upon itself again. Much to the surprise of the knight blade, who most often worked with boiled leather that was hard enough to turn a sword blow, the leather not only yielded to the machinist's touch, but remained folded into a thick, palm sized square until Mustadio unfolded it again.

"This one is made of pliable leather, allowing it to be unfolded so you can pull out the money you need and then folded up so that it can fit in your pocket without taking up much space," he explained. "There are other, more ostentatious designs, but this one is aimed at those who favor functionality over style. Apart from that, I also have an invention which I call the 'alarm clock'. It keeps track of the time through a mechanism that can measure it with greater precision than a sundial or an hourglass. You can also set it to ring very loudly at a certain time, which works wonders for waking up heavy sleepers in the morning. I used a prototype during the war and it worked very well...it likely woke up half the province, but at least the concept works."

Recalling what he suspected was the device in question, and how it's reportedly rousing half of Favoham was quite believable, the knight blade gave a nod and a smile even as the mere recollection made his ears ring.

"That's amazing!" Izlude exclaimed. "Do you have another of those wallets? I could use one."

"Unfortunately, this is the only one I have for now. But, if you want, I can make you one like this later. But, trust me on this, you should talk to my leatherworker partner if you want one that's decorative yet functional."

"I'll consider that, thank you."

"No problem, and I appreciate your kind words. Since you're also going to the ball, I'm sure we'll be able to meet again. I really think that, over time, I can design fancier, more eye-catching wallets for men and women. The alarm clock is also likely to sell well, if I can...refine the concept."

"That sounds like a promising business, especially since your goods will surely prove quite popular. I believe that, if this works as well as I expect, the king will have good cause to agree to or at least consider your proposal regarding guns."

"Thank you, sir. I'm glad at least one person approves of my ideas," Mustadio smiled.

Mustadio's gaze darted away for a moment, and Izlude noted that the machinist was tugging at his collar.

"I'm just hoping I don't mess this up," he admitted, and Izlude was aware of just how grand an understatement that was, since he was betraying such anxiety to a stranger. "I know, you're probably asking why I'm bothering with this when I could just as easily live off of Meliadoul's fortune, but I don't want that. I want to make something of myself, prove myself to her...even if I've done at least some of that already. It's no secret that she's practically slumming by being involved with someone like me, and I know there's going to be some people here and there who will thumb their noses at me no matter what I do. But, I want to try anyway, try to be a man she can be proud of."

 _I think you just might manage it,_ Izlude mused, impressed by the gumption the machinist had lurking behind his jangling nerves.

"Well, I think your ideas are brilliant, and I see no reason why the new king wouldn't consider them. And, as for Meliadoul, I think she is a very lucky woman."

The disguised knight blade could swear that Mustadio was blushing to the tips of his ears. Still, Izlude had to admit, he was impressed with the machinist. Having been born into nobility, Izlude was well aware of how pervasive it was for marriages amongst the nobility, and even some in humbler classes, to be arranged between boys and girls who'd never even met, let alone loved one another, and that most such matches had more to do with money than anything else. And, though marriages between nobles and well-to-do commoners was an emerging phenomenon, Izlude was wise enough to know that, in quite a few such cases, it was just as likely that one spouse was after a new pedigree with which to ply Ivalice's social circles while the other had eyes only for the size of their combined fortunes.

As for Mustadio, he was a case as unique as he was uplifting.

He'd known Meliadoul only a short time, and the two had met when he was on the wrong end of her sword. And yet, when he'd seen how sad and lonely she was after Izlude's supposed death and learning of her father's fate, he'd given nary a thought to trying, fumblingly, to cheer up the woman who'd nearly impaled him.

Then, when he'd seen that revenge had proven a fleeting balm for Meliadoul, he'd taken it upon himself to help her through her grief. What's more, though Mustadio could easily live out his days in luxury if he managed to get a woman of Meliadoul's wealth on his arm, he would not abide such, and sought to prove himself by earning his own fortune with his wits and his hands, even knowing that some of Meliadoul's blue-blooded peers would remain unimpressed.

Meliadoul would be a very lucky woman indeed if Mustadio succeeded in his unlikely bid for her hand, and Izlude hoped he could reiterate that point again someday. Perhaps while wearing his true face and speaking with his true voice.

"That...that's quite a vote of confidence," the machinist admitted, though he sounded more centered than his ever-reddening cheeks would suggest. "I swear, I must sound like quite the fool in love."

"There are plenty of fools about, but those are the best kind," Izlude affirmed feelingly. "Take me, for example. I've never even met Duchess Seymour, and all I know about her is the stories I've heard. But, all it took was chancing upon a portrait of her in an art shop, and I was ensnared!"

Despite the inevitable haze of ardor that engulfed him as he recalled his beloved Alma, Izlude yet had the wherewithal to parse his words carefully, as well as to make sure his embellishments mirrored the truth closely enough so as the machinist wouldn't notice any signs of deceit.

Izlude knew Alma Beoulve intimately - very intimately, in fact - but had never met her newfound persona of Duchess Catherine Seymour. And, since letting on that he'd known "Catherine Seymour" already, let alone from when she'd still gone by her given name, would be much too hazardous when speaking to someone who knew her and might raise questions he was ill prepared to answer.

"You and half the kingdom," Mustadio quipped. "Still, those stories aren't too far off the mark."

"Ah, so you've met Duchess Seymour, then?" Izlude asked, hardly needed to feign excitement.

"Yes, once or twice. She's a very pretty girl...yeah, I know, that sounds pretty underwhelming. But, in my defense, my eye was elsewhere."

As the machinist's words trailed off, an idea occurred to Izlude. Though the knight blade now had an overwhelming amount of evidence that Alma was alive and well, he knew only so much about how she'd been getting on under her new identity and in her new home. Perhaps Mustadio, who knew her personally, might lend him truer insight than the copious gossipers?

And, even if he couldn't, there was no sense running the risk that Mustadio's gushing might subside enough for him to wonder why a prospective suitor for Duchess Seymour's hand hadn't asked one of the duchess's friends about her.

"Would you mind telling me what sort of woman she is?" he asked, having no need to feign eagerness for even the most trivial revelation.

"Well, I mostly know her through her brother, Drake," Mustadio admitted. "But, if you're asking me if she's as pretty as they say, the answer's yes. And, she might sound like a dainty flower, but, from what I've heard from Drake, she must be made of sterner stuff than anyone gave her credit for. I'm guessing you've heard about Lionel Castle's new "staff"?"

"The orphans she took in and employed? Yes, I have. And, that must've been no small deed so soon after the war."

"Did you also hear that the first boy she took in was the spitting image of a man she fell in love with, but who'd died in the war?"

The knight blade was not a man who was easily startled, nor was his reserve known to desert him, even in the face of danger. Yet, the machinist's words nearly caused his lower jaw to literally fall open.

Though Mustadio had been wise enough to not mention the name, as Alma surely had as well, there was no doubt in Izlude's mind who this boy must resemble.

And, the revelation nearly knocked the breath from his lungs.

For a moment, he found himself wondering if Alma being able to take such an orphan under her wing might mean that she had gotten past the sorrow of his death, but he shook off the notion a heartbeat later. Would the stone, or the shades of his parents, have orchestrated his journey back to the realm of the living if his quest had been doomed from the first? No, he could not believe that, nor could he find it in him to believe that the same woman who'd bound his heart even as she herself had languished in chains would so quickly forget the love they had shared.

He kept faith that he would win Alma's hand and mend the heart that had been rent as surely by Hashmalum's claws as Izlude himself had been. After all, what was the alternative?

"Hello?" Mustadio called out, waving a hand in front of Izlude's face. "You still there?"

Jolted back to awareness, Izlude spluttered and blurted out "Sorry, I was shocked by your story."

"Yeah, so was I," the machinist admitted. "And, that boy had tried to steal from her, no less. But, I heard she's got him on the straight and narrow nowadays. Heck, she even got him included in her retinue when she came here. Must be quite the smooth talker to pull off both of those things, huh?"

 _Oh, you have no idea,_ Izlude mused, recalling just _what_ Alma had talked him into.

"So, you still impressed?" Mustadio asked shyly.

"Impressed? Try awed," Izlude shot back, before graciously offering a hand. "It occurs to me that I never introduced myself. I'm Damien Mitchell."

The machinist, after gasping out what sounded suspiciously like the phrase "the Ghostbuster of Gollund", clasped the proffered hand and replied "Mustadio Bunanza."

"It's a great pleasure to meet you."

 _Properly, this time,_ the knight blade added mentally.

Before Mustadio could muster the words to answer, both men were interrupted by the sound of someone nearby clearing their throat. Turning, they saw the chief tailor and owner of the shop himself with two sets of clothes draped over his arm.

"Excuse me, sirs, forgive me for interrupting, but I have the clothes you both requested. As for you, Sir Damien, the smith told me that your ceremonial armor should be ready by noon today. Is that acceptable?"

Izlude nodded. "Yes, of course. I'm very grateful that both of you were able to get my clothes and armor ready today."

Pat smiled. "It's no trouble, sir. Customer service is my number one priority, after all. Would you and Master Bunanza like to try on your clothes just to make sure they fit? I am confident I got your measurements right, but, if they need to be pinned, it's better to do so now rather than later. Especially with such an important event coming up."

"Yes, of course," Izlude said as he took the clothes Pat offered. After giving Izlude his clothes, the chief tailor handed Mustadio his.

"The dressing rooms are at the back of the shop. If you two gentlemen would be good enough to follow me."

"Please lead the way, Mr. Mowett," the machinist said politely. And without another word, the two young men followed the chief tailor to the back of the shop where the dressing rooms were located.

A quick inspection of his clothes revealed that Pat Mowett came by his reputation rightly. Though much of what he wore would be covered or overshadowed by the armor, he was quite please with the doublet. Meant more to impress than for actual fighting, the padded leather was daubed a rich green and was nearly as smooth as the supple material of Mustadio's wallet. The sleeves stopped just past the forearms, where they gave way to decorative bracers finished with intricate patterns. The leggings, a finely woven work of green colored wool that was partially devoured by boots of gleaming black, were no less impressive. Rounding out the apparel was a cape of emerald silk secured by a brooch which featured the emblem of the Wyverns.

Used to having a page or another humble, low ranking Templar to assist him, it took Izlude a fair bit of time to don the elaborate garb, especially the cape, as he was not used to wearing one rather than his customary tabard.

As for figuring out that the brooch was meant to fasten the cape at the shoulder rather than the throat, the knight blade was willing to chalk that up to an accident.

When he emerged - with some small reluctance, as he was far from certain he'd donned his garb properly - he saw that Mustadio had emerged much sooner. And, the machinist's choice of garb was...interesting.

If his new haircut had evoked tales of the long lost sky pirates of ancient Ivalice, Mustadio's new garb had greatly furthered the impression. He wore an embroidered golden and olive vest over a shirt with a commandingly high collar. Tight trousers of black leather vanished into high boots with golden buckles while a pair of belts encircled his waist. Upon one, two pistols and a cutlass rested, lending an eerie counterpoint to the grinning skull bisected by crossbones that shone from its silvery buckle. From the second belt dangled a collection of pouches, their purpose hinted at by the buckle, which bore a strong resemblance to a treasure chest. Over this flamboyant ensemble, he wore a seaman's jacket, festooned with copper buttons - which, Izlude suspected, didn't actually button anything - and coattails that would snap like banners in even the softest breeze.

It was, in short, the most needlessly flamboyant and ostentatious thing he'd ever seen, even after growing up amidst the profligacy of Ivalice's noble classes.

After blinking in stupefaction for a moment, Izlude asked "Is the ball perchance a costume or themed party? Or, is it taking place on a barge out on the ocean?"

The machinist reciprocated Izlude's dumbfounded blinking for a second before bursting into laugher, which likely acted as a mask for a sudden resurgence of his earlier self-consciousness.

"Well, I think it's no secret that my machinist's garb isn't exactly 'dashing'," Mustadio admitted, his expression utterly at odds with his swashbuckler's garb. "So, I thought I'd try a new look. Do you think it will help?"

"Well...," Izlude began tentatively, genuinely torn between wanting to advise Mustadio truthfully and his worries that relaying what he really thought of the too flashy garb might see Meliadoul attending the ball alone. "This might work for the ball. But, when it's just you and Dame Meliadoul, don't be surprised if she wants you as you are. That's the man who put a smile back on her face, remember?"

Mustadio seemed more than a bit surprised by the words and, since Izlude would be meeting his love wearing a face that was not his and speaking with a voice that was not his own, the knight blade was all too aware of his ironic his advice was. Still, the machinist nodded his understanding...even if he still seemed bent on wearing the corsair's ensemble to the ball.

This, in turn, caused Izlude to recall that, before and after crossing the threshold of adulthood, Meliadoul could deliver a nasty left hook when Izlude got her riled enough.

"You both look great!" Pat exclaimed, surprising Izlude somewhat, as the chief tailor smiled proudly at his work. "How do they fit?"

"Mine are perfect," Mustadio answered. "What about you, friend?"

"Everything fits perfectly," Izlude answered. "Except the cape, that is. It's a bit loose."

"Ah, well that was intentional," Pat assured him. "It will fit perfectly when you don your breastplate. If it were any smaller, the cape would be too tight."

"Ah, that makes sense. Please, give me your price and I'll be on my way."

"Well, for you, the total price for your clothes is 2,000 gil. For Master Bunanza, it will be about 1,000."

"Right away," Izlude said and without hesitating, the knight blade drew twenty 100 gil bills from his pocket and handed them over to the chief tailor. After Izlude paid, Mustadio followed suit.

"Thank you for taking the time to make these for me on such short notice," Izlude said.

"Same here," Mustadio added. "I really appreciate it."

"You're welcome, sirs. I wish you both good luck at the ball tonight. Now if you'll excuse me, I must meet with an associate of mine to take care of some business."

"By all means."

The chief tailor bowed and, without another word, departed. Both young men quickly changed back into their normal clothing and, meeting once more before leaving, Izlude offered Mustadio his hand.

"As I said, I'm very honored to have met you, Master Bunanza. I wish you good luck in your endeavors. And, when you have one available, I would very much be interested in buying a 'wallet' from you."

Mustadio smiled. "Please, call me Mustadio. Machinists need quite a reputation before they get to be called 'Master', and that might take me a while. Still, I'm honored to have met you too, Sir Damien. We'll keep in touch and good luck at the ball tonight. I'm sure someone like you would be a fine catch for the Duchess of Lionel. As for me, I've got a ways to go before I become someone worthy of Dame Meliadoul Tingel."

At the sound of his sister's name, the knight blade could not help but smile. "You may call me Damien. And, I have faith in you too, Mustadio. I hope we'll meet again soon. Farewell."

"Farewell, Damien."

* * *

Though he had likely breached some decorum of masculinity in deciding so quickly, and while dishing out practically nothing in the way of intimidation or humiliation, Izlude found himself quite pleased with his potential brother-in-law.

After parting ways with the young machinist, Izlude stopped by a nearby cafe for brunch, taking care not to let the gift box containing the clothes Pat made for him out of his sight for more than a heartbeat. This time, the knight blade dined alone, well and truly lost in thought. While the likelihood had been, very, strongly pointed out by Donavan, his encounter with Mustadio had corroborated the tale.

Not only was he finally going to get his chance to see Alma again, he may also come across his sister as well.

And, while the thought of such a reunion gladdened his heart just as surely as did the idea of someone like Mustadio courting his sister, it also worried Izlude as well. After all, though the Pisces Stone had, literally, undone his death, granted him a disguise by which to move about unrecognized, saved him from a second death more than once, and offered its own oblique counsel when he was uncertain what to do or when his determination wavered, he still had no idea how, or even if, the stone could restore his true face.

Granted, the stone had performed many wondrous feats that had allowed him to survive and get this close to his goal, but it also seemed to act purely of its own volition, some inscrutable mind with inscrutable motives guiding him along, and to what end, he could not say. What's more, he hadn't the faintest inkling of how to bend the stone to his will, and genuinely feared for his soul if he tried.

It had weighed on him for some time whether or not he'd wear the face of Damien Mitchell until he died for the second and final time, but, until now, he always had something or other which demanded his attention. First, it was following Ramza and his band so that, when they found Alma, so would Izlude.

Later, it was finding information and coin by which to finance his bid for Alma's hand. And, after that, it was reaching Lesalia in time to attend the galas where his beloved unwittingly awaited him. But now, so close to seeing both his love and his sister again, he still had no idea how he would be able to convince either Alma or Meliadoul that he was indeed the supposedly dead Izlude beneath the face of a stranger. And, he had even less of an idea how he was going to explain his surviving the massacre at Riovanes, even if either woman did believe him.

Convincing Alma, now that he thought about it, would prove no small feat, especially when he had literally expired in her arms after exchanging what both felt would be their final words to each other.

While it was possible that the stone would undo his disguise when it "felt" like it, the knight blade decided not to rely too heavily on that chance. One thing he did have going for him in that regard were his recollections of their fondest memories together; of the halcyon days of his and Alma's mutual seduction, and of him and Meliadoul as children. Most of what sprang to mind, no one other than them, Sir Justin, or his and Meliadoul's parents could possibly know.

Of course, that still left open the question of when to reveal himself. Doing so at the ball itself was out of the question; even if his story was believed, it could cause a scene that might jeopardize the secrecy of his and Alma's new identities. As for Meliadoul, Izlude felt it best not to reveal himself to her until he was confident he could provide answers to the questions he knew she would ask. The knight blade only hoped that his hot-tempered sister would give him a chance to explain himself rather than strangling him on the spot for not making himself known to her sooner. Even as an adult, craven though it might sound, he still feared her temper.

It also occurred to him that the Pisces Stone itself might help to back up his claim, especially if Malak had also been raised from the dead by another Zodiac Stone. Still, and even though Izlude didn't dare let the stone out of his sight, he was not unaware of the risks he'd run by taking it with him. It stood to reason that Duke Drake Seymour, known to but a few as Ramza Beoulve, would also be in attendance.

Izlude wasn't exactly thrilled at the notion.

Granted, he now had ample cause to believe that the former Beoulve was not the murderous heretic he had gone to his supposed grave as, but the knight blade suspected that, by now, Ramza had most, if not all, of the other Zodiac Stones...and was surely aware that one was missing.

Ramza might react...badly if he saw a strange man flashing around one of the stones that could turn men into demons, and that was discounting his reaction to Izlude and Alma sleeping together before marriage.

On that cheery note, Izlude finished his brunch of clam chowder, chased it with a fortifying swig of wine, and left both payment for the meal and a generous tip. Still uncertain of how best to reveal himself to Alma and Meliadoul, Izlude headed to the armor smith's shop that Pat told him about. If the smith lived up to Pat's recommendation - and that veritable cornerstone of Lesalian fashion did not give such endorsements casually - then he would have his ceremonial armor ready. As with his doublet and cape, Izlude was sure the breastplate was going to cost him a small fortune as well; but, it didn't matter since he had enough money to buy half the shops in town if he wanted.

As soon as he arrived at the smith's shop - one of many in Lesalia, and one he was fairly certain had opened after the war had ended - Izlude approached the front desk which was being tended to by a boy in his mid-teens.

"Excuse me, young man, are you the owner of the shop?" Izlude asked politely, despite knowing full well that the boy wasn't.

"No, sir, I am not. I am but a humble clerk," the boy answered, though he sounded more than a bit flattered by the misconception. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm actually here to pick up the breastplate I ordered yesterday. Is it ready yet?"

"Ahh, I see. You're Damien Mitchell, right? Of the Order of the Wyverns?

Izlude nodded. "Yes, that's me."

"I thought so," the boy said. "My boss is currently busy with another project, but he did inform me of your arrival. You actually came just at the right time; he finished your armor a little early and told me to have it ready for you by the time you arrived. Please wait here while I get it."

"Of course."

Nodding, the boy went to the back of the shop and a few moments later came back with a gleaming silver-toned breastplate with a symbol of a wyvern, perched and alert for prey, emblazoned upon it.

"Would you like me to help you try it on to make sure it fits, sir?" the boy offered.

"Yes, please, if you don't mind," Izlude accepted, moving towards where the fitting room was supposed to be, only to find an empty doorway leading into a room that was half lacquered wood while the rest was bare stone.

"I am sorry about that, sir," the clerk spluttered when Izlude's perplexed gaze locked upon him. "Normally, we could do this in a fitting room, but this shop is fairly new and much is still being built. So, I hope you don't mind trying it on right here in the middle of the lobby."

"Not at all. I've had to make do with worse."

Relieved that Izlude was not going to fuss over the lack of privacy, the boy let out a comically deep sigh of relief, which Izlude pretended not to notice, and went to work helping Izlude strap on his new armor over his clothes after the knight blade quickly donned his new doublet. Much like the golden plate of the Templars, donning this ceremonial armor meant negotiating a confusing array of straps and buckles, most of which couldn't be reached without assistance.

The clerk, rather zealous in his eagerness to make Izlude overlook the incomplete shop's shortcomings, quickly helped tighten the straps and secure the buckles, even those within the knight blade's reach, which harkened Izlude to bygone days when pages of the order or servants used to help him to don his templar armor piece by piece.

In fact, as part of his own training, and since his parentage afforded him no special treatment, Izlude had been in the young clerk's place quite a few times when he was a boy. After all, and as the oh-so-eloquent knight devout Sir Keith McGregor had put it, a knight could be the finest warrior to ever swing a sword, but if his armor fell off because he let the straps rot and break, he'd be just as dead as if he was holding his sword by the wrong end. Thus, having would-be Templars strap on the armor of their superiors was, in equal parts, a lesson in both humility and responsibility.

A page who was careless with maintaining and securing a knight's armor was gambling with another's life, and the consequences went well and truly beyond whatever disciplinary action the order might come up with.

"How does that feel, sir?" the boy asked after he finished tightening the last strap.

"It's a perfect fit, thank you," Izlude answered as he drew back, experimentally flexing and pacing to and fro. He had to admit that whoever crafted it was indeed skilled, for the breastplate felt almost as comfortable and flexible as the suede jerkin he'd often worn while out hunting. Whereas ceremonial armor was typically more frills than steel, and this armor certainly looked like a display piece, his discerning eye could readily discern that underneath the ostentatious touches was robust plate that struck an admirable balance between being light enough to maneuver in and yet sturdy enough to turn aside a blade.

Though Izlude would rather not test such an assertion, he felt he'd trust it to keep him alive in a battle.

"You're welcome. I'm glad you like it; father takes great pride in his work," the boy said, his smiling face betraying no small amount of pride as well.

"Oh, the smith is your father?" Izlude asked curiously.

"Yeah, he is. And, I'm his apprentice. I've made some pieces here and there, but I still have much to learn. None of my works are good enough to sell. At least not yet."

"Well, you're still very young and you've got plenty of time to learn. Experience is something that can come only with time and practice. I'm sure you'll do just as well as your father. So, how much do I owe you?"

"Let's see…," the boy muttered as he fished a note out of his pocket. "Ah, here we go. Father says he wants about 1,500 gil for this piece. Normally, we would only charge you 1,000 or so, but Mr. Mowett did say you needed it on short notice, so…"

"Say no more, I understand completely," Izlude said as he took sixteen 100 gil bills from his pocket. "Here, this is 1,500 gil for the armor and 100 for you since you've been so good to help me get my armor on."

Either the boy was not accustomed to receiving such lavish gratuities, or he usually didn't receive them at all. Either way, at the sight of the 100 gil bill that was meant for him being pressed into his hand along with the payment for the armor, the boy's eyes widened and his lower jaw fell open.

"Sir...that...that's mighty generous of you! Really, you shouldn't have!"

Izlude laughed light-heartedly, suddenly recalling a time when he would get nearly as flustered at such a gesture. "Think nothing of it. I wish you the best of luck in your tutelage; I'm sure you'll be just as good as your father someday. Please, give him my thanks as well. Also, before I go, can you help me remove my armor?"

"Of course, sir," the boy answered. "But, what about when you attend the ball? If you want, I can come to your residence and help you put it on again...provided, of course, that you don't live too far away."

"Actually, I'm not from around here," the knight blade replied, parsing his words carefully. "I'm actually from Yardow. I'm just staying at an inn nearby. But, if it's not too much trouble, I would appreciate your assistance again. Will you be able to do it tonight?"

"Absolutely. What time do you plan to arrive at the ball? I would need at least five to ten minutes to help you put this back on."

"Well, I was told that the ball will begin shortly after sundown, it that helps."

"I see. It's no problem at all, just let me know which inn you're staying at, as well as the room number, and I'll be there in plenty of time to help you get ready. But, I have to warn you, sir, you might want to be there a bit earlier than that. I've heard tell that King Delita is going to cut off the flow of suitors to the castle tonight."

When he heard that, Izlude was startled. "What? But, I was told that the ball was going to be for three nights, and tonight is only the second night."

The boy sighed. "Be that as it may, sir, the suitor pool is growing larger and faster than the king expected. The castle ballroom can only hold so many people, and that's leaving aside the expenses this ball is generating. It sure has the rumor mill a-churning that the king would spend more money on his cousin's social debut than he did on his own coronation. But, I digress. The point is that he has begun turning men away at the door, so I'd not dally if I were you."

"All right… I understand. Thank you for letting me know. By the way, I didn't catch your name."

"Oh, I can't believe I forgot!" the boy laughed self-deprecatingly. "My name is Thomas, but you can call me Tom."

Izlude smiled. "Thank you, Tom. So, I'll see you before sunset? I'm staying at the Keystone Inn and my room number is 25."

"I'll keep that in mind, Sir Damien." Tom said as he quickly loosened the straps and undid the buckles of Izlude's armor before carefully packing them into a strongbox.

"Good," the knight blade said as he hefted the strongbox with the breastplate onto his shoulder while tucking the one with his clothes under his arm. "See you tonight, then, Tom."

"You too. Bye for now."

* * *

 _Great, just what I need…_ Izlude inwardly fumed after leaving the smith. Although he knew there would be a considerable number of young men vying for Alma's hand - indeed, one could not throw a cabbage without expecting to hit such a prospective suitor - the knight blade hadn't expected that there would be so many that King Delita would have to start turning suitors away; and on the second night of the ball, no less.

 _Well, I guess it's not too bad. I should be grateful the king hadn't started turning away suitors on the first day…_ the knight blade reminded himself, even the notion of it causing his stomach to drop.

Had that happened, then it would've been literally impossible for him to attend the ball, for lacking proper attire would've seen him barred from entering and all the money in the world could not have seen Pat or Tom's father prepare his clothes and armor in so short a time.

And, had that happened, Izlude's long journey might have been in vain. Even if another opportunity to see Alma had presented itself, who could say that one amongst her horde of suitors wouldn't catch her eye in the meantime?

After all, his dying wish - or, at least, he'd thought it that at the time - had been that she not forget him, not that she mourn him forever.

The streets blurred by, as did a number of people yelling imprecations about him barreling past them, as Izlude raced back to the inn. Once he was safety within his room, Izlude set the boxes containing his clothes and armor on a nearby table and blew out a ragged breath. Though his mad sprint hadn't left him particularly winded, he nonetheless heaved ragged breaths and broke out in a cold sweat as it sank in that his reunion with Alma was but hours away, and that his window of opportunity was quite narrow.

He pointedly reminded himself of how lucky he was that Thomas offered to help him don his armor before the ball, as it would have been difficult, if not impossible, for him to do so alone. Realizing that he still had several hours before the smith's son arrived, and that his jangling nerves would not relent, Izlude decided that a warm bath might help to calm him and, afterwards, he could while away the hours by going over his cover story one last time.

Once the warm suds had calmed his racing heart as much as could be expected - which, to Izlude's chagrin, wasn't much - he began ruminating over likely questions which would arise during the ball as well as skimming through the tome he'd acquired on the caravan regarding the history and culture of Romanda. Like as not, his exotic features and the _Lesalia Times_ revealing him as being descended from Romandan immigrants would attract some interest, and he knew Lesalian culture well enough to know that such a novelty as that ducking too many curious questions would invite ill feelings, if not suspicion.

Knowing the remaining suitors would run plenty of interference on their own, Izlude put himself in the position of a younger Damien Mitchell - quite possibly the real Damien Mitchell, since his exotic features meant that Izlude's ruminations might hew quite close to reality - and mulled over what tales his grandparents would share of the Motherland, as Romandan natives often called their native soil.

Though the exercise felt akin to some form of existential grave robbing, both his contemplations and the book provided many likely answers. The knight blade was grateful that the owner of the useful tome was willing to sell it to him before he arrived in Lesalia instead of asking for it back.

As Izlude had come to discover, information was an invaluable resource for one who had to hide behind a false face.

His present difficulties notwithstanding, the Romandan history book was a fascinating volume. Although its infamously harsh winters might make living in such a place seem impossible, the Romandans had actually managed to carve out a niche of sustainable civilization through the use of enclosed farms called greenhouses that allowed food production even during snowfall, as well as trawlers specifically designed for use in icy waters. As much as he would have liked to read the book cover to cover, Izlude knew that he would not have nearly enough time, so he only read the parts with the most pertinent information that people at the ball were most likely to inquire after.

Hasty though his reading might be, it did leave him wondering if his suppositions about Damien Mitchell's background were true and, if so, he could not help but be impressed by the ancestry of the man whose name and face he'd appropriated.

Perhaps, when his time truly came, preferably many years hence, he'd have the chance to tell him that.

Unfortunately, the one thing he could not learn by reading was the taste of that dreaded shark dish people kept asking him about. Granted, the book had a great deal to say about _Hakarl_ , as catching a shark and making a meal out of it was no small feat, but nothing that conveyed just what made the bizarre dish so appealing.

Still, now that Izlude had some means of whiling away the hours, the once languid passage of the sun now seemed far too swift and, with so much to plan and too little time to do it, the remaining hours went by quickly. With barely an hour remaining before sunset, Izlude heard a knock at his door. When he answered it, he was surprised to find Tom, the smith's son, standing in the doorway and flushed as though he'd run all the way from his shop.

"Tom? I wasn't expecting you this early; the ball won't start for at least another two hours. Surely you can help me get my armor on in just a few short minutes."

"I know, Sir Damien, but have you forgotten what I told you?" the boy asked, keeping a straight posture despite wheezing like a blown chocobo. "King Delita will close the castle doors tonight and any suitors arriving after that will be turned away. And, you may not even have the whole night; so, the sooner you get there, the greater your chances are of getting in. After you left the shop, I read up about you in the _Lesalia Times._ I imagine you might be tired of hearing this by now, but it must've taken a lot of courage to fight those ghosts in Gollund. You must've come a long way, just to seek the hand of the Duchess of Lionel, and I'd hate to see you turned away because of unlucky timing. So, I really think you should get to the castle early. No sense risking all that gallantry going to waste, right?"

The knight blade had to admit, he was more than a bit surprised by Tom's apparent concern. And, for some reason, which he strongly suspected had to do with the holy stone radiating warmth in his pocket, he had a feeling that his generous tip had little to do with Tom's actions.

When he posed the question, Tom seemed equal parts abashed and perplexed.

"It's kinda strange, really," he admitted, scratching the back of his head. "After you left the shop, I got the strangest feeling that I'd heard your name before, and that it was important for some reason. Then, when I was out in the back of the shop sweeping up the ashes from the forge, I noticed a copy of the _Lesalia Times_ my father had left on his workbench. I don't read the _Times_ much, it's kinda dry for me. But, I saw the article about you and...well, I couldn't put it down. I figured that catching the eye of the duchess must mean a lot to you if you went to all that trouble, and I didn't want it all to go to waste. So, here I am."

Izlude could not help but smile at the boy's words. Thomas was truly wise beyond his years if he was already a promising student in his father's craft, as well as having the wherewithal to realize the identity of his unlikely customer. Izlude was also grateful that Thomas had chosen to offer what help he could, especially since he could've just as easily missed the article entirely since he was not in the habit of reading the _Times._

Perhaps it was also due in part to the holy stone in his pocket that Izlude had been fortunate enough to run into people from all walks of life, willing to offer him helpful advice or assistance. In fact, given Thomas's account, he found himself wondering if the stone might've been using its strange powers to subtly encourage them to do so.

After all, if the stone could undo death, issuing a silent suggestion to a young boy seemed a small challenge indeed.

And, though this potential display also resurrected the question of just why the stone was so keen on getting him to Lesalia Castle, Izlude decided that, for now, he'd just have to be grateful and make sure the stone was kept well away from the wrong hands.

"You're right, Tom. I should have considered that," Izlude admitted. "Since you put it that way, can you please help me put on my armor after I get dressed?"

"Yes, sir. Please go ahead and I'll be waiting right here," Tom replied, almost comically relieved to have been heeded.

Without wasting another moment, Izlude took the box with his new clothes and went into the restroom to change. When he finished and stepped outside, Thomas whistled at his new garb.

"Very impressive!" the boy exclaimed. "I knew Pat wouldn't disappoint! You'll definitely catch the eye of the duchess with those and your armor, of course."

Izlude raised a brow. "Oh, so you do know Mr. Mowett? I suspected as much, since he's not an easy man to impress."

"Yeah, he's been a good friend of my father's for years. They often refer customers to each other, and he even helped us find a new storefront when our original shop was destroyed in the rioting during the war. Like I said, the new place wasn't finished yet, but it's coming along. So, shall we get started on getting your breastplate on?"

"Yes, ready when you are, Tom."

For the next ten or so minutes, the smith's son carefully assisted Izlude in fitting the gleaming breastplate onto his torso over the rich green doublet that the knight blade wore along with the pair of decorative bracers, fine leggings of green wool, and black leather boots. Unlike at the smith shop where they only did a cursory fitting in order to be sure the armor was the right size for Izlude, this time Tom made sure to secure the shoulder pauldrons and sword belt as well before assisting the knight blade in fastening his cape over the armor. Izlude was grateful for the boy's assistance with the cape as well and, after making sure everything else was in place, Tom polished off his work by giving the fine black leather boots a quick shine.

"Phew, finally finished!" Tom rasped as he wiped his brow. "Would you like to see yourself in the mirror, in case you want any changes to your ensemble?"

Taking the boy's advice, Izlude looked into the mirror of his dresser and fought the urge to whistle in amazement. He hadn't had the chance to wear formal clothing since the time he spent with Alma at Riovanes, before the tragic massacre that had parted them.

For a precious moment, he was back there again, in his chambers at Riovanes, pondering whether his appearance was presentable and why in God's name he wanted to appear presentable to his prisoner.

That recollection nearly tore a bark of laughter from his throat, but he swallowed it before Tom noticed. Still, the knight blade recalled how quickly and how insidiously he'd been charmed by the Beoulve girl. Her beauty, her wits, her unflinching loyalty to her favorite brother, and even the mingling of courage and conscience that drove her to try and seduce him to win her freedom and then to relent when she feared her path to escape called for murder.

"If I didn't know better, Tom, I'd think Mowett had fitted me," Izlude said as he returned to the present. "I'm grateful to Pat and your father for getting these to me on such short notice. And, I'm also grateful to you as well. Between your timely warning and your help, you might've just saved me from being turned away at the door."

"Think nothing of it," the boy said with characteristic abashment before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small vial.

Curious, Izlude asked "What's that?"

"It's a rare cologne my mother bought my father as a gift years ago. I'd like for you to have it in return for your generosity."

Izlude blinked. "Well, not that I don't appreciate it, but should you be giving away your father's cologne like that?

"Don't worry, this is just a small sample of it. My father has a bigger bottle at home. I just put a bit in this small vial for you. He's had this fragrance for years but hardly ever wears it, so I'm sure he won't miss it."

"I see…thank you. And, since you went above and beyond your duties as your father's clerk, I'd like you to have this," Izlude said as he took out another 100 gil bill and pressed it into the boy's hand.

Tom blushed at the generous offer. "Sir, you don't have to, really!"

"No, I do," Izlude insisted. "As I said, if it were not for you, I would not have known that the king plans to begin turning away suitors tonight. Like you said, I've had a long journey to get here, and it would've been terrible if all that went to waste. Thank you."

"You're welcome, Sir Damien. I'm glad I could be of service to you. I wish you luck at the ball and with the duchess. I must be going now, have a good night."

"You too, Tom. Goodbye."


	22. To Win His Lady Fair: Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Here's the moment you've all been waiting for! After months of searching, Izlude finally reunites with his beloved Alma! Since this chapter turned out longer than I thought, I've decided to split it in two. Once again, I would like to thank my co-writer and editor, Falchion1984 for his help in making this fic possible. Enjoy and please review!

After Thomas had left, a very nervous Izlude gave his attire one last inspection before drawing in what was supposed to be a calming breath and then departing for the castle. Since he had quite a bit of money and valuables in his room, the knight blade also had to make sure the door was securely locked, as well as leaving strict instructions at the front desk that none of the staff, who also held keys, be allowed in until his return. Though his request likely raised an eyebrow or two, the addition of a fifty gil bill on top of his earlier payment for the room convinced the staff to leave it at that. The knight blade also made sure the holy stone was secure in his pocket. Though taking it into the castle was a risk - for Ramza and his companions might very well think him another Weigraf or Vormav if they realized he had it and act accordingly - there was no way he would leave it unattended, no matter what.

He still had no idea of the stone's motives for helping him at all, let alone this much, but he also knew that the stone was too dangerous to risk it falling into the wrong hands.

As it turned out, upon reaching the gates of Lesalia Castle, Izlude found that Thomas' words rang true. Although he arrived an hour and a half before the ball was scheduled to begin, he was barely through the doors when he heard a commotion behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to see that the castle guardsmen flanking the door had crossed their halberds, barring the way of any who'd sought entrance. Judging by the protestations he heard, there were quite a few. And most were quite bellicose at this misfortune.

Apparently, Izlude was the final suitor to reach the castle before King Delita gave the order to close the doors.

Even before feeling the subtle vibration in his pocket, the knight blade already knew that happenstance had nothing to do with his fortuitous timing.

Between the near miss, and just how near he was to the culmination of his long journey, the blood pounding in his ears soon drowned out the angry clamoring behind him as he signed his name into the guest log and continued into the castle.

Although he had been to Lesalia Castle a few times in his childhood, Izlude found that the new king had lost no time stamping it with his newfound authority. Along the hallways and on the four walls of the elegant ballroom, the crest of the newly founded Order of the Chimera rippled with seeming life at even the softest current of moving air. Since the ball was likely to last several hours into the night, there were also tables set up where guests could partake of food and refreshments at their leisure.

The revitalization of Ivalice's farmlands was very much in evidence, as the tables were crammed with confections in such variety and abundance as had not been seen since before the War of the Lions, if not longer. Amidst the meats, fruits, fish, stews, pastries, chilled milk, wine, and other mouth watering dishes were many which Izlude had never seen before. When he spied the small identifying tags, his astonished gaze told him that some of the strange dishes were Romandan, and a few were even Ordallian.

Having grown up in a time where both nations had sought Ivalice's destruction, that had taken Izlude by surprise. And, as his eyes roamed the expansive ballroom, the knight blade was shocked when he saw a handful of people who had the same jet-black hair and steel grey eyes he presently sported. What's more, judging by the mingling of red and white, as well as the homespun belts and such embroidered images as that of a snarling polar bear or a sleek snow leopard, Izlude realized that he beheld an entourage of native Romandans. And, as if that wasn't enough, the sight of several figures with almond shaped eyes and wearing elegant long sleeved robes secured with colorful sashes told the disbelieving knight blade that Ordalians were also in attendance.

Izlude had not expected to see any foreigners at the ball, especially ones who had formerly been Ivalice's enemies. And yet, when he thought about it, he realized that it did make sense that such a brilliant achievement as fostering friendly diplomatic relations with Ivalice's neighboring countries for the first time in decades by inviting their representatives to the ball would fit quite nicely into the newly crowned king's burgeoning legacy of triumphs and bettering the lives of all Ivalicians where his predecessors had either failed miserably or hadn't bothered to try at all. And, despite the gamble Delita was surely engaged in, as a great deal of Ivalice's poverty following the Fifty Years War was attributable to the reparations she had to pay under the terms of the treaty which ended the conflict, the sight of a richly dressed Ordalian nobleman bowing respectfully to the young king seemed to indelibly mark this as yet another feather in Delita's cap.

The knight blade, not for the first time, found himself wondering just what lay at the end of all this. After all, by reuniting all the knightly orders under the new, shared banner of the Chimera, reshaping Ivalice's economy to ensure a freer flow of goods and services, and awing the common folk with his rags to riches story, Delita now had a near, if not total monopoly on both the adoration of Ivalice's men and women-at-arms, merchants, traders, farmers, and common folk, as well as the credit for ending the War of the Lions and setting Ivalice on the course towards a better future.

What Delita might do with all this power he had amassed? Izlude could not say, though the question caused more than a hint of dread to sink into the back of his mind. Shaking it off for the moment, he decided to concentrate on what he had come here for, hoping that he would not be competing with these foreigners for Alma's hand as well. Though Delita's ambitions would likely benefit from his orchestrating such a symbolic match, Izlude was rather hoping that the newly crowned king would let that particular triumph occur latter, especially since it was tradition for a noblewoman to live under her husband's roof after they wed, even if that meant living in another country.

Since Alma was apparently not yet ready to make her appearance, Izlude decided to pass the time by perusing the refreshments. As his gaze roamed the tables, studying culinary delights familiar and exotic, the knight blade nearly did a double-take when he spotted _Hakarl_ , the "dreaded" Romandan shark dish which people had been incessantly asking him about. Izlude recalled the book he'd acquired going on at considerable length about how time consuming it was to prepare the dish, as well as the exploits of the various seaborne hunters who caught the sharks in the first place, at times risking life and limb to do so.

Since he was not really a native Romandan, whatever it was that made the dish so appealing yet eluded Izlude. Still, he was trying to pass himself off as a man of Romandan descent and it was likely he would run into still more people who might question him about the exotic dish, especially since it was here and ripe for the tasting. What's more, being asked about it so often had stirred the knight blade's curiosity, so he decided that now was as good time as any to taste it for himself. At the very least, he could give an accurate description and make his alleged Romadan heritage more convincing.

As soon as he picked up and placed a piece of shark inside his mouth, Izlude almost wished he hadn't. Although he normally tried to keep an open mind with regards to food, the knight blade found that the Hakarl had a taste reminiscent of rubber.

 _How can anyone eat this?!_ he inwardly fumed. _It's awful!_

If it wouldn't have looked so improper, not to mention potentially offensive to both his royal hosts and their Romandan guests, Izlude might have spit out the shark where he stood. Not wanting to draw unwanted attention to himself, the knight blade forced himself to swallow the rubbery piece of fish and then requested a glass of water to wash it down with. And a piece of mint to get rid of the smell, for he didn't want to have come all this way only to scare Alma away with bad breath.

"It's an acquired taste," a heavily accented male voice spoke up from behind him, with obvious amusement in his tone.

Years of knightly training, not to mention his current surroundings, were more than enough to quash any thought of answering such mockery with his fist, but Izlude decided he might as well face whoever had spoken, just in case the mind-numbing revulsion caused by the _Hakarl_ eased enough for him to devise a retort. That, however, was forgotten when he beheld the speaker and saw that he was staring at one of the native Romandan guests, likely a nobleman - or a boyar, as they were called in their native soil - judging by his rich clothing.

That had been more than enough to have Izlude inwardly terrified, for a native Romandan would likely recognize "Damien's" origins and ask after them at greater length than an Ivalician. But, Izlude felt his heart start climbing up his throat when the boyar's expression was overtaken by an enormous grin and he belted out _"Rodich!"_

That was the Romandan word for "kinsman".

The knight blade had assumed that Damien Mitchell had no family, since the line where they would be listed on his dog tag had been blank, but what if that wasn't the case? What if the real Damien had relatives back in Romanda? What if one such relative was the man who presently stood before him?

And, worse, what if this man had known "Damien" well enough to spot the inconsistencies in Izlude's portrayal?

The boyar seemed quite oblivious to Izlude's inner distress, but calmed it by holding up a copy of the Lesalia Times and displaying an all too familiar article.

Thank heavens, this hadn't been some relative of Damien Mitchell, but merely an admiring "kinsman". In hindsight, that made sense, as the book Izlude had read did state that Romandans, as a rule, had a degree of wariness towards non-Romandans and, when they traveled to other lands or immigrated, they much preferred the company of their countrymen where they could find it. Though this made diplomacy with them a chancy prospect, it also meant that Romandan communities tended to be tightly knit, and it was not uncommon for "neighbors" and "brothers" to see a distinction without a difference. He quickly recalled other entries about the general temperament of Romandans and how, within reason, they could find great humor in small sleights and clever verbal jabs. Perhaps, to make his guise more convincing, Izlude might deliver a few such insults.

 _Excuse me?_ his more rational, and more neglected, inner voice spoke up. _You, who was practically raised to be courteous and considerate to anything loftier than a carrion eater, insult a perfect stranger, for no good reason, all on the off-chance that he'll laugh instead of drawing his gun and blowing your head off?! If you can do that, you really are made for spycraft!_

Idly wondering just how many times the holy stone could bring one back from death, the knight blade turned his attention back to his "kinsman".

"'The Ghostbuster of Gollund'!" the boyar quoted, seeming to grow more and more pleased by the chance meeting with each passing moment. "A credit you are to your kindred back in the Motherland! Most auspicious it is to meet you. I am Dmitri Kurakin Izmaylov the Twelfth, boyar of Tatsinskaya and Mordavia, and there is no pistolier commander more well known or more feared than I."

Izlude actually hadn't heard that name at all, for who could forget a name and title with so many syllables? He considered making that his first jab, but quickly changed his mind. Instead, he injected a degree of reverence into his smile and, remembering another passage from the book, had been partway through the proper bow before the boyar snatched him by the shoulder to straighten him up.

"None of that, none of that!" he exclaimed emphatically. "We are here to drink and dance and be merry! Do not bother me with all the cloying protocol I came here to get away from."

That took Izude by surprise, as more than a few of the Ivalician nobles couldn't get enough of watching those beneath them grovel. But, then again, this boyar was also a pistolier, and was likely more at home in the saddle, with pistol in hand and an enemy in his gun sights, than in whatever opulence he'd chosen to sail away from. This was especially striking, given that Romandans often mixed poorly with other lands and cultures. He also had the look of a warrior, being tall and broad-shouldered with a neatly trimmed beard and a voice that could likely be heard by most of the ballroom. And, when he offered a hand to Izlude, the knight blade could add a grip that could crack walnuts to that list of characteristics.

"Call me Dmitri," the boyar requested. "Your king's chancellor tried to pronounce the whole thing, and he nearly tied his tongue in a knot."

 _I can believe it,_ Izlude mused, though his amusement likely showed.

"But, 'Damien Mitchell'?" the boyar went on, and Izlude sensed an opportunity approaching. "What kind of a name is that?!"

"A pronounceable kind," the knight blade said coyly. "Tell me, when you're vetting candidates for the post of majordomo, do you give them ten chances to introduce you properly? Or, is it twenty?"

Dmitri gaped at Izlude for a second, which caused the knight blade to wonder if he'd misjudged the length of the boyar's humor, but the man then smiled and roared with the hilarity of it.

Izlude had often heard the phrase "laugh, and the world laughs with you". In the boyar's case, a more appropriate phrase likely would've been "laugh, and the world covers its ears". The man was deafening!

Still, at least he seemed vastly more amused than offended, so Izlude suspected his first jab had struck true. But, after the boyar began to clap him on the back hard enough to uproot a small tree, Izlude was second-guessing the wisdom of trying another.

"You have the wits of your countrymen after all!" Dmitri cheered, loudly enough to attract stares from across the room. "Let us drink. Alexei! Nicolai! A vodka for each of us, at once!"

A pair of huge, silent men, whom Izlude guessed to be the boyar's bodyguards, promptly left and returned a moment later, each carrying a glass of clear liquid which, if Izlude remembered correctly, was potent Romandan alcohol.

 _Very_ potent, judging by the smell.

Having risen from two hangovers courtesy of Georg, the very last thing the knight blade wanted was to be too drunk to complete his long awaited reunion with Alma. Still, he didn't fancy his chances of getting the bellicose boyar to listen to a polite refusal. Gulping, and hoping that Georg's forcing beer on him might've fortified his unimpressive tolerance, Izlude followed Dmitri's example and raised his glass.

"To the Motherland! May our absence from home be brief!" the boyar thundered merrily.

"And to the people dear to us, who make home a place to cherish instead of just a place!" Izlude answered, his thoughts straying towards Alma, Meliadoul, and Donavan, wondering how and if he might speak to them again as his true self.

Approving of the knight blade's sentiments, even if he could not discern their full depths, the boyar again laughed piercingly and clapped Izlude on the back. This had the fortuitous result of spilling Izlude's vodka, but Dmitri didn't seem to notice and, if his huge bodyguards had seen it, they gave no sign.

"Well said, well said!" the boyar belted out happily. "You are here for the lady of the hour, I gather?"

For the better part of twenty minutes, the pair carried on their chat, with Izlude hardly needing to feign his starry-eyed wonderment at the mysterious Duchess Catherine Seymour. As was the case with Mustadio, he'd stuck to his almost truthful story about having never met her and yet becoming enchanted as he'd heard tales. Later, at Dmitri's insistence, Izlude relayed the tale of his battle in Gollund, albeit with such precautions as leaving out the holy stone.

After that, and for the sake of courtesy - which seemed downright cathartic after throwing out several more playful insults that the boyar found very amusing - the knight blade asked after Dmitri's domains. Recalling from the book that Tatsinskaya was located along a northerly stretch of Romanda's icy coast, Izlude mentioned that his grandfather had, at times, described the beautiful fjords there.

After some fascinating tales of the exotic fish that could be found in waters cold enough to freeze men solid, Dmitri elected to make a curious proposition.

"Wait, you want me to join you when you return to Romanda?" he blurted, astonished.

"That, I do," the boyar confirmed, though his customary bombast did soften when he noticed Izlude's eyes stray towards the broad, carpeted staircase where "Duchess Catherine" would soon make her entrance. "Do not misunderstand me, friend. I am not asking you to throw away your quest for love over a...business proposition, but hear me out. Tell me, did your grandparents tell you...how far a 'ghostbuster' can go in Romanda?"

"Actually, they didn't," Izlude answered truthfully, unable to recall anything helpful from the book. "But, then, I was quite young when they passed. Maybe they thought it best not to speak of such things."

"Ah, then allow me. You know of our harsh winters, yes? Well, even today, it is far from unheard-of for elders and sickly children to be taken by the cold. And, because the turf can become as hard as stone under the ice, it is not always possible to give our dead a proper burial. Sometimes, the dead are...displeased by this, and they rise again. This is problem Ivalicians are familiar with, yes?"

"It is. The ghosts I fought in Gollund were anchored here both by the wickedness they'd done in life and by their greed."

"And, those were quite dangerous, no? Well, so are the undead in my homeland. They are many, and they have all the persistence of beings who cannot lose their lives. So, a 'ghostbuster', as the Times call you, can make a killing in Romanda...you will pardon the pun, yes?"

In truth, the pun was the very last thing on Izlude's mind. The boyar was, undoubtedly, leading up to hiring the knight blade's service as a hunter of ghosts and zombies. And, Izlude was forced to admit, he was conflicted. It was true that he'd often lamented that he knew so little of Damien Mitchell, and how it pained him that the real Damien didn't even have anyone to mourn him, save the stranger who'd appropriated his name and face and yet knew practically nothing about the man whose identity he'd borrowed. It was also true that, as the notion that Damien was of Romandan descent became more and more corroborated, Izlude had found himself curious about that icebound land and its people, especially after reading about it as much as he could given his mission.

No less compelling, Izlude was uniquely aware of the pain and suffering which the wandering dead could visit upon the living, as the handful of specters in Gollund had come within inches of ruining Aldrich's business, which would've caused hundreds if not thousands of good people to lose their jobs, and which would've affected many more by hobbling the reconstruction of Ivalice. The notion of such dead rising in anger at the living for failing to bury them - and when the living could no more dig a grave in the icy turf than they could dig to the invisible bedrock beneath the desert, no less - seemed even worse.

 _Correct me if I'm wrong, but don't you hate winter?_ his often neglected more rational voice chimed in.

Yes, that was part of the reason Izlude was conflicted. If the winters in Romanda truly did grow so bad that properly burying the dead could become impossible, he was certain that they'd be vastly worse than the winters he'd so detested while growing up in Southern Lesalia. And, he was certain he didn't want to subject Alma to that...

...unless she felt differently.

Living under a false identity, as he was uniquely aware, was quite lonely. Alma reportedly taking in many of the children from the defunct workhouses had surely acted as a balm to that wound, but how long would they stay? Some might be adopted while others would grow up and likely choose to make their own way in the world, leaving her alone once more. And, since Alma had to resort to mundane means of disguising herself, there was always the chance that some highly observant acquaintance of hers might recognize her. Such a chance, no matter how slim, would make her isolation all the more painful.

What if she wanted to start over elsewhere, in a place where she had no cause to fear the gaze of every stranger? What if that same kind spirit he'd become so enamored with relished the chance of helping those in need on distant shores?

These were compelling questions, questions to which Izlude had no answers. And, these weren't the only ones, for the new Ivalice that had risen from the ashes of the War of the Lions yet yawned wide, rife with opportunities and adventures which, though enticing, were unfamiliar to him who'd been groomed to be a Templar during what turned out to be the final years of the order.

His future, following his reunion with Alma, was rife with questions about where he might sail on this uncharted sea.

But, these questions mattered little at the moment. After all, he had yet to reunite with Alma.

"Think it over," Dmitri urged, though Izlude had already decided to do just that. "After all, adventures on foreign shores, braving the elements, facing down danger, and earning a fortune doing it? That's the stuff that youth is made of!"

Perhaps Dmitri's vivaciousness was contagious, or maybe vodka could intoxicate one by aroma alone. Either way, Izlude simply couldn't help himself.

"So, since I cleared over one million gil during my first ghost hunting expedition, does that mean I'm now a very old man or that I should expect a second childhood?"

That prompted another gale of laughter and still more ferocious backslapping. If Izlude didn't come away from this conversation deafened and/or hunchbacked, it wouldn't be for lack of trying on the boyar's part.

"Keep this up, and your first ghost just might be mine!" Dmitri guffawed. "I'll keel over from laughter and haunt you. Still, think it over. I believe you could do much good in Romanda."

"I'll consider it," the knight blade replied, somehow not surprised that he wanted to give the matter earnest consideration regardless of his eventual decision. "For now, I await my lady. _Do svidaniya."_

 _"Do svidaniya,_ and may your lady leap into your arms, and then your bed, before the night is through."

Considering Izlude had already managed both back in Riovanes, he felt self-assurance and nostalgia in equal parts. Still, knowing better than to voice such, he thanked the boyar for the vote of confidence and took his leave.

As he continued to survey the other guests, Izlude saw many young men who looked like they came from all over Ivalice. Some looked to be noblemen, some still prosperous and others who had little besides their names and their lineages with which to urge their suit. Others look to be well-to-do commoners who, like Aldrich and "Damien Mitchell" himself, had earned great wealth in the newer and freer economy and were keen to further their newfound pedigrees by courting a duchess.

While waiting for Alma to make her entrance, Izlude tried to pass the time by wandering the ballroom and making small talk, if only because it might have looked suspicious if he kept to himself too much amidst the ever-present gossip that so characterized Lesalia. The Romadans in attendance greeted him cordially but did not chat with him at length.

As to the why of it, Izlude wasn't discounting the possibility that Dmitri's deep voice had allowed the whole ballroom to hear their conversation.

As the fated moment drew nearer, the small talk faded to a distant buzzing that was ultimately drowned out by the blood pounding in Izlude's ears. Deciding to gamble that a modest swig of wine might calm his nerves, and suspect he'd likely explode otherwise, he made his way to the refreshment table where such spirits were being served. But, his desperate stride came to a lurching halt when he noticed a figure slumped in a chair, nursing a glass of wine and clearly wishing he'd never touched it.

It was a young boy, but weeks removed from this thirteenth birthday and, between the garb of a squire which he wore and Izlude's somewhat murky recollections of himself at that age, he'd just been hazed by some of his older fellows who'd talked him into imbibing a drink too strong for his years.

Izlude had suffered much the same fate during his early days in the Templars, though the drink in question had been potent enough that he'd had to take Meliadoul's word for it, that wasn't what had stopped Izlude cold.

The boy had a face Izlude knew, and very well indeed.

_Good heavens! It's me!_

Well, sort of. Though the Pisces Stone had done many wondrous things during its time in Izlude's possession, he doubted it had seen fit to fill the gaps in his inebriation addled memory. Yet, though Mustadio had implied that one of the boys Alma had taken in resembled Izlude, and had described the resemblance as "eerie", the knight blade was certain the machinist had understated the case a little.

From the short cropped brown hair to the bleary green eyes that squinted against the light in the ballroom, Izlude felt as though he was looking at his own reflection, on a day many years ago when he'd first donned the golden armor of the Templars.

Izlude eyes blurred with sudden tears, not only with longing to have back his true face with which to greet his love but also knowing with sudden and crushing certainty just how much it must've pained Alma to act as this boy's surrogate mother when a face so akin to her, supposedly, lost love stared back at her all the while.

The boy either didn't notice Izlude's slack-jawed amazement or the wine had his head pounding too much for him to care; the knight blade suspected the latter was quite likely. But, when the boy belatedly realized that the figure standing over him was a knight, he made a lurching attempt to rise and salute, drowsily swaying from side to side as he tried to keep his feet. Having a sudden, very unpleasant memory involving something similar steal over him, the knight blade clapped a restraining hand on the boy's shoulder and gently pushed him back into his chair.

"Rest easy, son," he intoned softly, somewhat startled by his choice of phrasing. "You've had a busy day." Retrieving the wine glass from the boy's tenuous grip, a whiff of the strong bouquet had him wondering if someone wanted this day to be the boy's last. "You're fortunate to be all in one piece."

It looked like the boy didn't quite agree, and this was confirmed when he spied the wine glass and his expression contorted in such revulsion that one might think Izlude held a man's disembodied head.

"How do grown-ups stand that stuff?" he asked no one in particular, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Don't look at me," Izlude replied, somehow surprised at how freely he was speaking to his near-doppelganger. "I've been a grown-up for years, and they don't always make sense to me either."

Though he dove-tailed the sentiment with a smile, which soon found a twin on the boy's features, the knight blade couldn't help but feel a melancholy truth behind those flippant words.

The War of the Lions had thrown into sharp relief the evils that people were capable of doing to one another, as well as how easy it was to rationalize orchestrating such evil, whether the justification be lust for power or the belief that the suffering of the few in the moment would benefit the many in the ages to come, or simple indifference towards whatever damage need be wrought to attain ones desires.

After all, the demon who'd evicted the soul of the once righteous Cardinal Draclau hadn't given a second thought to beggaring this boy's workhouse to finance the hunt for a stray holy stone rather than risk the secrecy of the Lucavi's machinations.

He decided against saying this, and not just because he felt that revealing the true, clawed hand behind the War of the Lions might be too explosive, but also because the boy likely had already made sad acquaintance with such depravity. Still, if Izlude knew Alma, she'd likely been able to acquaint him with the warmth of human kindness as well.

Another moment of silent admiration towards his love passed, and the knight blade decided to introduce himself to the boy.

After all, if tonight went as he'd hoped, the two of them would likely see a great deal of each other.

Recalling a relevant tidbit from the book on Romanda, he quickly darted to the buffet table and procured a bowl of brined cucumbers, which reportedly helped combat hangovers, and handed it to the boy. He also grabbed a chair and seated himself opposite his newfound companion.

"Those will help clear your head, I think," Izlude said, quickly falling into his role of Damien Mitchell. "My grandmother said they helped grandfather when he'd had too much to drink."

"They're really salty," the boy said, his expression suggesting that he didn't consider that a selling point.

"Well, if you keep drinking, you'd best get used to them." Seeing the boy's features screw up in disgust, Izlude mused aloud "I wonder if that's why grandmother was so certain it worked?"

That got a sliver of a smile out of the boy, and Izlude offered his hand.

"I'm Damien Mitchell," he said in a friendly tone. "And, you are?"

"My name's Manon," the boy answered, shaking the proffered hand with surprising firmness. "I am a squire in the service of Duchess Catherine Seymour."

"A squire? That's impressive. When I was your age, I had another year or so before I was eligible."

In truth, Izlude was newly inducted at or around Manon's age, but he suspected admitting that might raise awkward questions.

Still, Manon's unlikely, and assuredly unconventional, journey to knighthood showed well so far despite his brush with alcohol, for Izlude would discern lean, hard muscle on the otherwise small frame. And, despite his reportedly having crossed Alma's doorstep as a ragamuffin, one would never have guessed such as they took in the boy's well groomed appearance and his courteous, if slurred, speech.

"You're a knight, aren't you?" Manon spoke up, his eyes beginning to clear as the Romandan remedy seemed to take effect.

"That's right," Izlude confirmed. "The knights in Favoham used to be called the Order of the Wyverns. There aren't many left, but most of the survivors have likely joined the king's new Order of the Chimera. I've considered it myself, but I haven't decided."

"I don't know if I want to be a Chimera, but I do want to be a knight. At the workhouse, I read about them all the time...well, I looked at the pictures. I didn't learn how to read until Sir Beowulf started to train me. He and I had weapons practice this morning and he says I show a lot of promise."

Though hindsight might see Izlude chastising himself for it, this revelation sent his eyes pulsing wide with amazement. He had heard of Sir Beowulf Kadmus who, despite being a Gryphon Knight, had been trained in the Templar art of the Spellblade and had been considered a staunch defender of the faith.

That had made the accusations against him difficult to swallow, even before learning they came from the ever-suspect tongue of Celebrant Bremondt. Still, a mark of heresy, which was a badge of ignominy on the same order as that of murderer or rapist or oathbreaker, was not dispensed lightly...

...but, it could be dispensed falsely.

After all, Ramza Beoulve's slaying of the Lucavi demon who'd subverted Cardinal Draclau had seen him bear such a mark, supposedly to his grave, and yet Izlude was amongst the few to know the truth.

Was it possible that Beowulf had been similarly maligned? And, if so, how had he managed to keep his head when faced with a charge that could see even a duke's neck on the chopping block?

"Sir Beowulf?" Izlude asked, unable to hide his amazement. "I thought he was stripped of command for heresy."

"Not anymore," Manon said, a hint of smug vindication in his tone. "King Delita and High Confessor Ryker discovered that the charges against him were false. He's been cleared, and the king wants him to be the regional commander of all Chimera Knights in Lionel."

That, Izlude had to admit, came as a surprise. Offhand, he could not think of why the newly crowned king would pardon Beowulf, especially of an allegation so heinous that most would consider proof of guilt to be unnecessary. Granted, given Delita's sharp wits and newfound authority, not to mention how he likely had the now decimated church thoroughly leveraged, he likely could have accomplished such a feat. Still, it would surely have entailed considerable risk while yielding him no obvious benefits.

So, why would Delita do such a thing for an accused heretic when he had neither any clear relationship to the man, nor any discernible motive to help him?

Then, recalling another supposed heretic, Izlude felt he had the answer.

Could this have something to do with the assertion Ramza had made on that distant day in Riovanes Castle, that he yet held faith in his old friendship with Delita despite the latter's actions?

The knight blade could not say. Indeed, he wasn't even sure if one alleged heretic had anything to do with the other, yet he saw little reason to discount that there was a connection. Especially since Beowulf's new position meant he now spent a great deal of time under Ramza's - and Alma's - roof.

"That is a rare and impressive feat, to survive a mark of heresy," he admitted, feelingly. "Even those who were later proven innocent often weren't in a position to appreciate it."

"I know," Manon said, his eyes and words growing clearer by the moment. "He must be a great warrior, then. And, I want to learn from the best."

"For me, it was wanting to be like my father and older sister." Izlude felt that such a sliver of truth would prove innocuous enough. "Being of Romandan stock, it wasn't easy to get a fair shake. Luckily, we caught the eye of certain people who can appreciate a warrior's sword arm more than where they came from. And, hard though it was, my father and older sister made a name for themselves. I admired them a great deal for that, and I swore I'd do the same, no matter how long or hard it might be."

"Did you fight in the war?"

"Yes, I did. Though Favoham was neutral, I sensed that I'd worn out my welcome there after raising too many objections to Duke Barrington's treatment of those beneath him. So, I departed to join King Delita's army. He wasn't king at the time, of course, but he did command the army by then. And, I'd heard many good things about him. I was at the Battle of Fort Besselat, and I was nearly killed when the sluice opened. I would've drowned, but my mount dragged me ashore and some kindly farmers in Limberry nursed me back to health."

As was often the case, the knight blade's story danced back and forth over the line between telling as much truth as he could and making what revisions or omissions he felt were needed. Still, despite the creative license, he sensed that this particular story would do Manon some good.

Too many knights viewed the common folk in much the same light as did the nobles who'd nearly steered the realm to ruin, and too many chose wrongly when they realized they were in the service of a lord who had neither honor nor any compunction against issuing orders criminal and immoral.

Though Izlude had learned the latter in a manner too volatile to disclose, he hoped the story might help if Manon found himself in the unenviable position of his duty to his lord and his honor as a knight becoming mutually exclusive. As for learning humility from owing one's life to people most would look down upon, that was a lesson Izlude thought best taught as unfiltered as he dared.

"They sound like good people," Manon opined, something resembling nostalgia crossing his face. "It's funny, I didn't think there were that many. Especially not after the grown-ups from the workhouse just left us when they stopped getting their pay. But, when Charlotte and I went to Lionel Castle, we ended up meeting a whole bunch. Lady Catherine is very kind, and I really think I'd do anything for her."

"I can believe it," Izlude said, feelingly. "And, I think she's lucky to have you. But, who's Charlotte?"

"She's a...friend of mine from the workhouse. When I left, I took her with me. I'm training to be a knight, and Lady Catherine thinks Charlotte could be one of her ladies-in-waiting when she's older."

"Lady Catherine trusted you so easily?"

"Well, she did. But, Lord Drake needed convincing, especially since we'd be around Rachel so much."

"Who's Rachel?"

"She's Lord Drake and Lady Agrias's daughter. They're over there."

Izlude had been expecting a lot of things when he arrived at the ball, for he'd attended enough of them to know that one gala had much in common with any other.

The hordes of men vying for Alma's hand, he'd expected. Especially given the ever-spreading stories of her charm and beauty whose veracity he was...intimately aware of.

The opulent decor and decadent cuisine, he'd expected; it simply wouldn't be a ball at Lesalia Castle if such things were absent.

Drake Seymour - known to but a few as Ramza Beoulve - being in attendance, he'd expected; especially given that his sister was here to find herself a likely husband. Izlude had also expected Ramza to disguise himself, and his following Manon's gaze allowed him to see that Ramza had dyed his hair red and now sported a mustache that looked like he'd stolen it from a local theater's makeup drawer.

What he had not expected was for Ramza to be seated next to Agrias Oaks, bouncing a baby on his knee.

Ramza was cooing over the baby and, though distance and the density of the crowd made it impossible to either hear him or read his lips, there was no mistaking the delight on the Duke of Lionel's face as the baby - Rachel - giggled and flailed her chubby arms. Agrias, seated next to the pair, rolled her eyes good naturedly and one hand darted in to tickle the baby.

It was a precious scene, and one that had eased a heartfelt smile from Izlude, followed by a heartfelt laugh when Rachel spit up on Ramza and sent the Duke of Lionel scurrying off for a change of clothes. Still, though the knight blade did find his potential niece quite fetching, he still felt more than a bit of perplexity regarding the unknown and unknowing progeny of the fallen House Beoulve.

Izlude's knowledge of babies was exceptionally sparse, but he was positive that the child was too old to have been sired after the War of the Lions had ended. So, could that mean she was conceived beforehand? Then, sudden realization dawned, and a coy smile tugged at the knight blade's lips.

_Ah, so that was why Agrias looked so fat...I mean glowing when I was shadowing them after Riovanes. She must've been pregnant at the time. Ramza, you stud!_

Izlude had sensed that Ramza and Agrias had been more than simply comrades-in-arms as he'd shadowed them, and he'd also noticed many peculiarities in Agrias. She had hardly acted the part of the cold and off-putting woman she was reputed to be, then or now. And, despite the distance and the ebb and flow of people between him and the holy knight, the knight blade could see the warmth with which Agrias regarded her baby and her thinly veiled amusement at Ramza's small misfortune.

"She is precious," Izlude said as he watched Agrias level a scolding finger at Rachel only for the baby girl to demonstrate that she'd inherited her mother's firm grip. "I daresay that Duke Seymour is a very lucky man. By the way, this...friend of yours, Charlotte? Is she around here somewhere?"

Manon glanced around for a moment and then caught sight of something that caused his expression to brighten. Waving to someone amidst the crowd, a bit too wildly for a formal setting, the knight blade followed his gaze and beheld another familiar face.

Approaching them was Alma...but not quite.

Though the girl had the same long blonde hair and sky blue eyes as the woman who'd won his heart so long ago in Riovanes, the girl who'd approached was just barely past from her tenth birthday. And, whereas Manon dressed like a squire, the girl wore the garb of a burgeoning orator. She wore a tunic of reddish pink that descended to join a slit gown and soft leather boots. She lacked either the elaborate headpiece which characterized those orators who'd passed their examinations and the gun which orators often carried when the need arose for "aggressive negotiations".

Another obvious difference between this girl and Alma was, whereas the Beoulve girl had been as slender as an aspen, the robe of a junior orator was sorely pressed to conceal the younger girl's potbelly. Her cheeks were also quite a bit thicker than Izlude would've expected, and this was accentuated when a cooing older woman gave them a merry pinch in midstride. And, explanation for both was obviated by the two plates she bore in either hand, both of which were crammed with pastries.

The girl - Charlotte, Izlude suspected - had been approaching Manon, an expression of barely concealed amusement on her features. When she caught sight of Izlude, however, she drew up short, her humor giving way to wariness and suspicion. Still, knowing the story of the workhouse where she'd likely come from, the knight blade could hardly blame her for being leery at the sight of a grownup hovering over Manon. Such unhappy experiences aside, she might've gotten a laugh at Manon's scattered wits, but seeing one of the people who might've hazed him was likely another story.

Aside from the suspicion, however, Izlude could see concern for the boy seated next to him in her sky blue orbs. And, between that and the slight hesitation that had crept into Manon's words when he described Charlotte as "a friend", the knight blade found himself thinking that the pair resembling miniatures of himself and Alma might go further than simple appearances.

Did Alma, perhaps, see in them what might have happened if fate's capricious hand had drawn Izlude and Alma together when they were much younger? If so, perhaps she sought to help the two have that which had been cruelly snatched away from her and her supposedly dead beloved? Yet, her act of conscience and charity would've had her watch many a might-have-been unfold before her eyes all the while.

Though she'd never drawn steel in war, it seemed that Alma had the sort of constitution which so characterized her knightly forbearers.

That realization steeled Izlude's determination that, of the horde of men vying for Alma's hand, he would be the prevailing suitor. And, whether the stone could restore his true face or not, he swore he'd find a way to prove that the man she thought she'd lost still lived and had come back for her.

For now, however, he felt he ought to try and do what his beloved did and reach out a gentle hand to these children who, God willing, would soon be like family to him.

"Hello there," he said, smiling reassuringly before he beckoned for her to approach. "Come here, my little friend. Don't be afraid."

The girl took only a few tentative steps forward, her eyes straying towards Manon as she approached. Though the boy had recovered most of his faculties, his gaze was still somewhat bleary and he sometimes brought up a hand to massage away at temples likely throbbing under the abuse of the gala around him. That sight caused Charlotte to approach more quickly, a hint of alarm on her young face, but Izlude calmly offered the girl his chair and said "Oh, don't worry. He'll be alright."

It took a good few minutes of Charlotte studying a firmly protesting Manon before she shared the knight blade's assessment, but he'd found the scene between the two quite amusing. Once she was done fussing over the boy, Charlotte settled back into her seat and sagged with relief. However, when she belatedly remembered who'd been using it beforehand, she sprang back to her feet, turned to face Izlude, and dipped into a proper, if hasty, curtsy.

"You have my thanks, Sir Knight, for your courtesy," she said, having apparently been drilled in etiquette and protocol. "I trust the evening finds you well?"

"Very well, indeed," Izlude answered as he fetched another chair and seated himself between the two children. When he saw the pair look subtly nonplussed at the seating arrangements, he inwardly snickered.

 _I think Alma and I may have just found our first project,_ he mused, valiantly forcing himself to keep a straight face.

"You are Charlotte, I presume?" he asked, to which the girl nodded. "Manon has been telling me about you. He mentioned that Lady Catherine would like you to be one of her ladies-in-waiting, but he didn't mention you were already being trained."

"Your pardon, Sir, but I'm not being trained yet," the girl admitted, somewhat sheepishly. "Well, not formally. I found some books about what I need to know and have been practicing whenever I can."

"Oh, so you know how to read?"

"Yes, Sir. Before the grown-ups left the workhouse, one of them taught me. When I first got to the castle, I wanted to do something nice for Lady Catherine. So, I went through the cookbooks and tried to make her a good meal. It took a few tries, but she really liked my bacon quiche."

 _Looks like she wasn't the only one,_ Izlude mused as he tried not to stare at Charlotte's stomach which, now that she was seated, covered a fair portion of her thighs.

Long since acquainted with the myriad reasons not to say such things aloud, and with an image of Meliadoul waving her fists menacingly to reinforce the lesson, Izlude instead gave an approving nod. More than a few tales he'd heard from the war had included people, many of whom once decent and honest to a fault, becoming so ensnared by the chaos and poverty of Ivalice that any act that would ensure their continued survival was acceptable, no matter how disreputable and heinous it might be.

Had the two children taken advantage of Alma's generosity and simply pilfered what food and coin they could carry before vanishing into the night, the Beoulve girl could've been considered lucky.

Others who'd shown generosity to those whose desperation had driven them to depravity had fared worse. In some cases, much, much worse.

That Manon and Charlotte, desperate and impoverished though they were, had proven so different from many others who'd been in the same straits impressed Izlude. And, he could only shake his head in amazement that Alma had helped to draw forth the better natures of such unlikely people.

He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised, though. After all, she'd worked a similar magic on him that had seen him ask for her hand and, later, give his life so that the leonine demon behind the Riovanes massacre might fail to add her to its collection of victims.

"Since Lady Catherine made her request, I've been reading about sewing and painting, how to plan out my lady's schedule and what to watch out for when I go through her letters," Charlotte continued. "Most of it, I won't be able to do until I'm older, but I want to be ready when the time comes."

"That sort of dedication is admirable in one so young," Izlude said with an approving nod.

"Thank you, Sir...um, I forgot to ask your name. Sorry."

"That's alright; when you have many responsibilities, it takes practice to remember them all. Back when I was a squire, I had to make sure my sword was sharp, my armor in good condition, my mount fed, and more. It took a lot of practice before I could remember it all, and it might've helped if I'd done it your way instead of being so keen to joust and gallivant about on my chocobo. Still, I managed it, and I think you will too. Oh, I nearly forgot. My name is Damien Mitchell, formerly of the Order of the Wyverns."

He could discern a hint of amusement in Charlotte at his having forgetting to introduce himself, but that didn't stop him from rising to give a perfunctory bow, as he would to any fine lady. Clearly unused to such treatment, the girl blushed profusely.

"So, you're here to try and court Lady Catherine?" Manon asked, and the knight blade could sense an earnestness behind the question that went beyond the boy's years.

After giving a solemn nod, Izlude drew upon his, by now, the well-practiced tale of how he'd heard the stories of the Duchess Seymour's beauty and charm, and that he'd become more enthralled with each telling. Then, unexpectedly breaking from his unwritten script, he added how his enchantment became all the greater when he'd learned of "Lady Catherine's" kindness in opening her doors to many of the children who'd been orphaned by the wars and then abandoned by church and state alike, dovetailing the sentiment with a hastily drawn tale of how his objections to Duke Barrington's callousness had eventually cost him his hard-won welcome at Riovanes.

Perhaps allowing that much emotion to seep into his tale had been a risk, for a mind that needs to weave strategic embellishments upon the truth can find that narrow path blurred by either the cold depths of anger or the warmth that lingered about the heights of transcendent joy. Yet, Izlude could not bring himself to care whether they spotted some oddity in his tale or not.

In a matter of hours, if he was lucky, he would be reunited with Alma and these two might effectively become his stepchildren. Perhaps he wanted to be able to tell them as much of the truth as he could possibly reveal? Maybe, like Alma, he wanted for these children of the wars to have a better future than their forbearers had known. Or, since he'd soon be joining this unlikely family, he, who had hewn out a new circle of friends in his time as Damien Mitchell, was eager to once more find, and extend, acceptance amongst the people with whom he'd share his newfound life.

Whatever the reason, though the two children exchanged glances that hinted at something Izlude could not guess at, his heart felt light when they regarded him with approval.

"Sounds like making Lady Catherine happy means a lot to you," Manon observed, meditatively stroking his chin before his gaze sharpened into feigned hostility. "That's good. You'd have me to deal with otherwise."

"Oh, stop that, Manon," Charlotte chastised, rolling her eyes in exasperation. "Please, don't mind him, Sir Damien. Still, I'm glad you said all that. A lot of the suitors seem to just want Lady Catherine for her money or because she's really pretty. It's been bothering her a lot. She doesn't let it show, but I can tell."

"I can believe it," the knight blade affirmed. "And, she must be a good woman for you two to care about her so much."

"Yes, Sir. I really hope she finds a good husband. One who will be good to her and her...family."

It might've been Izlude's imagination, but he could've sworn Charlotte's eyes popped wide part way through that last sentence. But, after a moment's perplexity, he decided that he must've been mistaken. Charlotte, for her part, quickly began to dig into the pastries she'd collected.

Her table manners showed that she was taking her advance studies to be a lady-in-waiting seriously...and her clearing one of the plates and promptly starting on the second promptly explained how a onetime street waif had become so round in a matter of weeks.

"Er...," Izlude murmured, idly wondering if Alma had had moments like this. "Are you sure you should be eating that much?"

"Don't bother," Manon spoke up. "Lady Catherine has already tried two or three times and didn't get far."

"Manon," Charlotte spoke up, very nearly sounding like an orator making an opening argument, "We're only going to be here for another day. You know how many times I dreamed about visiting a place like this? I'm going to enjoy every bit of it that I can."

"Hope you enjoy getting lectured by Lady Catherine, then. She's not going to be happy that you didn't listen and pigged out until you got sick. Again."

Perhaps Izlude was keen to prevent further worries troubling Alma, since she surely had enough to deal with already. Maybe, since these two children who were very nearly Alma's own and were growing on him as well, he did not relish the idea of them earning the ire of their mother-figure.

Young he might've been when his own mother passed away, but he was quite certain that one who'd riled her came away regretting it.

Or, possibly, something akin to paternal instinct was taking root at having met those who would, for all intents and purposes, be his stepchildren once he and Alma were finally wed, and he'd begun to share Alma's desire to see them grow into honest and responsible people.

"Was Lady Catherine upset when this happened?" he asked, his words taking on a serious edge.

Charlotte's reddening cheeks were almost as good as an affirmative.

"This might not be my business," the knight blade admitted, mentally adding yet, "but, I'm going to have to side with Manon here. I can guess why Lady Catherine would be concerned. Is it true that it made you sick once or twice?"

Again, Charlotte was silent, but her silence spoke volumes.

"Lady Catherine warned you that might happen, I'm guessing?" this time, Charlotte nodded. "Well, from what you've told me, she did that because she cares for you. And, quite a bit, I think. It wouldn't do to just ignore her, especially since you already know that she was right. Now, I think you ought to share some of those pastries with Manon."

Already acquainted with the effects alcohol could have on the stomach, Izlude was not surprised when Manon waved away the confections, looking slightly ill.

"Getting something in your stomach will help you feel better," Izlude advised him firmly. "Drinking too much wine can make you feel overtired, and the sugar will help you wake up."

With great reluctance, Manon nodded. And, with even greater reluctance, Charlotte slid the plate over to him, but not before snatching a cream filled horn and scarfing it down before Izlude could react. Rolling his eyes, the knight blade watched as Manon nibbled on the fare and quickly began to perk up.

"That does feel better," the boy opined. "Thank you, Sir."

"Don't thank me, thank Charlotte," Izlude replied, trying to keep a sly undertone from his words. "I think it's the mark of a good lady to be considerate of others. I also think the proper way to repay her is with a dance."

Manon's eyes were well and truly clear of the wine's effects.

Given how wide they were after that pronouncement, it was easy to tell.

After the two children were done spluttering excuses and decided to take his suggestion later in the evening, the trio conversed at some length. Izlude asked a few questions about Lady Catherine, finding that Alma's pseudonym was growing on him after he'd heard it from the mouths of her unlikely wards.

From them, Izlude learned that, in addition to Alma, Ramza, Agrias, and baby Rachel, other inhabitants of the castle included Rad Philips and the Murry twins while Beowulf Kadmus and his newly wedded wife, Reis Kadmus, were frequent visitors. He also learned about some of the other children, in particular the young storyteller Deckard Cain who, when he prefaced one of his tales by belting out "Stay awhile and listen", even got the adults jockeying for the best seats.

Izlude, in turn, told the children about the people he'd met on his journey, such as the Fredericks, Sir Alian, Georg, Gerde, the Boulder Devils, Aldrich, Claudio, Pat, Thomas, and even Mustadio, carefully disclosing that the machinist was a friend and brother-in-arms to "Drake" and that he sought the hand of another of the duke's compatriots, the Divine Knight Meliadoul Tingel. He even told them about Dmitri, doing an imitation of the boyar's thick accent and bombastic tones which was found very amusing by all...

...including Dmitri when he joined them.

Reminded that "Damien" was of foreign stock, the children were quick to ask about Romanda, and the knight blade and the boyar alternately told of the icebound kingdom's history and its folklore, such as the _domovoi_ , diminutive spirits that watched over households to ward off misfortune.

Dmitri had been about to launch into a tale about the _rusalka,_ the spirit of a drowned, unmarried woman who sought vengeance by luring men into her lake and dragging them under. When Izlude recalled this rather grisly tale, and that the _rusalka_ did it while not wearing a stitch of clothing, he promptly redirected the subject towards the riddle-loving _leshy._

Through it all, the knight blade felt himself growing fonder of the two children, and more and more amazed at how Alma had helped the former street waifs become what they were now. That was an impressive enough feat, even leaving aside that she saw what she and Izlude could've had with every glance at them and that, as was the case when she'd gambled her freedom on Izlude being cut from a different cloth than the corrupted church and the Lucavi hosts, she had gambled that the two children's better natures were hidden beneath the rags and grime and that she could dredge it up.

Alma, Izlude decided, would make a good mother.

The chatter between the four continued for some time until, so suddenly that one of their numbers was cut off in midsentence, a blaring of trumpets echoed through the ballroom. Realizing that the moment must be upon him at last, Izlude saw that the grand doors at the top of the carpeted staircase had opened and a young man, dressed in the regalia of high office and with dark hair that had been pulled into a small ponytail tied behind a head that had been shaved on either side, strode through and boldly called for everyone's attention.

"Attention, ladies and gentlemen, fellow Ivalicians, as well as honored guests from distant lands! As chancellor, I, Olan Durai, am honored to present to you our humble rulers, King Delita and Queen Ovelia Hyral!"

At the sound of Olan's voice, everyone in the ballroom turned and bowed as the royal couple descended to the ballroom. Both were resplendent in the trappings of royalty and, despite knowing Delita to be of common birth, Izlude could not help but feel awed at the presence he exuded, and he wondered if even the famed Denamda IV could cause such wonderment in an audience with nary a word.

As soon as Delita and Ovelia were seated upon their thrones, the king turned to Olan and nodded. Taking the hint, the young chancellor continued.

"And, with the permission of the king and queen, I am also honored to present to all of you the lady of the hour, Duchess Catherine Seymour, sister to Duke Drake Seymour of Lionel!"

At this pronouncement, a young man and woman, who appeared about the same age of the king and queen, appeared atop the staircase and, with the brother offering his arm to his sister, the pair descended towards the ballroom. Upon seeing the siblings, the guests started to quietly whisper among themselves, no doubt chattering on about the Seymours' red hair. Some were lamenting that the duke was already married, especially after seeing how he cut an impressive figure in his blue doublet and supple leather leggings.

Izlude, by contrast, was trying to tell, with wry amusement, whether Ramza had changed clothes or merely did a good job of wiping away the spit-up.

However, most eyes, including Izlude's, were quickly riveted upon the beauty of the duchess herself. Duchess Seymour was radiant in her velvet green dress with black laces, though the dress was well and truly eclipsed by her lustrous red hair, the inviting red hue of her cheeks, and her generous curves. Having finally laid eyes upon the object of his desire, the knight blade's breath caught in his throat while his palms began to sweat and his heart to race. Claudio was right. His portrait of "Catherine", although impressive, did not do her beauty justice.

When they finally stood before the royal couple, the Duke and Duchess of Lionel bowed before their new rulers. Izlude watched as "Drake", whose newly grown mustache still looked like a costume piece but did make him less recognizable as Ramza Beoulve, took King Delita's hand and pressed it to his forehead in a gesture of humility and respect. Likewise, Catherine followed suit with Queen Ovelia.

"As the new Duke and Duchess of Lionel, we are honored to pledge our loyalty to the crown of Ivalice, now and forevermore," they said together, ensuring their words carried to everyone in the ballroom.

"By your leave, Your Majesties."

The royal couple nodded and with their approval, the duke and duchess turned to face the guests. After exchanging a glance with Alma, which Izlude was unable to see from his vantage point, Ramza spoke.

"As the Duke of Lionel, I present to you my sister, Duchess Catherine," he began, and Izlude could swear there was a slight hitch in his voice. "As many of you are aware, she will choose one from among you to be her husband. I'm sure it will be difficult for her, as you are all fine young men; but, rest assured, she is well aware of your efforts and will give each and every one of you due consideration."

Izlude watched as the guests cheered with great enthusiasm and, although he knew the other young men were his competition, he could not help but join in as well. Though he'd had no shortage of evidence, be it the holy stone's reassuring pulses or Claudio's portrait, none could lighten his heart so much as seeing Alma, alive and well, at long last.

Now that it had finally begun in earnest, the second evening of the ball proceeded much like the first. As laid out by the king, the suitors were to be presented to Duchess Catherine according the order in which they arrived and signed in. And, since Izlude was the very last to do so, he realized, much to his frustration, that he was going to be the last to be introduced to Alma. And so, he grudgingly resigned himself to watching, with keen interest, and maybe a little jealousy, as the woman he'd ventured back from the afterlife to see danced with one suitor after another.

A lifetime of adherence to the chivalric code kept him from cutting in line...with his sword.

Ramza, on the other hand, noticed that his sister was making more of an effort to smile and at least feign interest in the numerous young men seeking her hand. But even so, she did not seem to be doing much more than she had the previous night in giving any of them "due consideration" as her potential husband.

And, leaving aside the dirty looks that had been discreetly sent in his direction by some of the more petulant of those who'd been obliquely rejected, Ramza knew his sister well enough to tell that her heart simply wasn't in to the contrived dances or the men who urged heartfelt suits. Though Ovelia had fared better than he in conveying the importance of having a husband before her pregnancy could no longer be hidden, it seemed these earnest warnings had not been enough.

Ramza was frustrated and angry by Alma's reticence, but most of all her behavior made him worry that she was jeopardizing her child's very future, again.

Fortunately for the overwrought duke, the solution to his problem arrived in the form of a raven-haired young man with steel-grey eyes.

When Izlude's turn to be introduced to Alma finally arrived, he rose to his feet and, with a trio of encouraging voices urging him on, slowly approached this duchess. After taking a moment to regain his composure, he gave a formal bow, the sight of "Catherine" more than enough to chase away any thought of his unusual appearance belatedly catching the attention of everyone else in the ballroom. Even Olan was stunned for a moment before remembering to make the proper introduction.

"And, our final suitor for the night, may I present to you, Sir Damian Mitchell from the city of Yardow."

After seeing and dancing with so many young men already, Alma was, underneath her painted smile, the very opposite of enthusiastic. For what felt like weeks, she'd been introduced to one man after another and, though most were fair to the eye and had tales she might've otherwise found fascinating, she just wanted the ball to be over so she could return to her room. Her growing child seemed keen to burst out of her and her stomach, already bellicose enough with her emergent cravings, had begun to cramp fiercely. And, on top of that, her shoes clearly hadn't been made to accommodate her swollen ankles. Still, as much as she wished otherwise, she did promise Ovelia that she would consider at least one of her suitors and fought the urge to sigh as she lifted her gaze to meet that of the last man seeking her hand from amongst tonight's horde. What she saw almost made her heart stop.

The young man before Alma looked hauntingly similar to her lost love. Even though it had been months since their tragic parting, she swore he had an uncanny resemblance to Izlude. Though this young man had hair the color of the mid-night sky and his eyes were the color of cold steel, and was quite pale in comparison to Izlude's lightly tanned skin, his build and form were much akin to Izlude's, as was his posture and the way he carried himself. And, when he smiled, it so resembled that of the late Templar that Alma felt her cheeks grow hot.

 _I don't believe it,_ Alma thought. _A Romandan? But, he's not dressed like the other ones here. Who is he, I wonder?_

"My lady, is something the matter?"

"Oh!" Alma gasped softly, embarrassed that he caught her staring. "Please forgive me, I didn't mean to be rude."

Izlude's smile broadened before taking her delicate hand and bringing it to his lips. Having already seen Alma and her new look - first in a portrait, then up close as she danced with her other suitors - the knight blade already had time to adjust and was not as shocked as she was when looking at him.

"There is no need to apologize, my lady. I'm quite used to my appearance attracting attention."

"Are you Romandan? Pardon me for saying, but don't sound like one."

Although it had been years, Alma recalled her late father inviting a traveling Romandan merchant to Igros Castle. Though he'd kept the particulars to himself, he'd apparently chosen not to return to his home country before the borders closed during the Fifty Years War. When Balbanes introduced her and Ramza to the merchant, she remembered that his accent was different from the young man who was speaking to her now. Whereas the merchant spoke with a heavy nasal voice, rolled his r's, and had a peculiar habit of using w's where v's seemed a more likely fit, Sir Damien sounded more like a true Favoham native, with his thick burr and glottal stops.

"I am. But, I was not born in Romanda. I was born in Yardow, so I may as well be a native Ivalician. If I may be so bold to ask, may I have this dance, Duchess Catherine?"

For a long moment, Alma was conflicted. On the one hand, what had drawn her to this man had been his subtle, but palpable resemblance to Izlude and it would be a disservice to him, her baby, and herself if she allowed him into her life purely because of his vague resemblance to her lost love. But, on the other hand, his sudden appearance had caused something to kindle in her breast.

It might have been the simple curiosity that arose when faced with a handsome stranger, or it could've been the heat that arose in her cheeks in the presence of a charming man. It might also have been that faint and irrational, but irresistible hope that a blind and seemingly foolish gamble - on the same order as a young boy fighting the depredations of demonkind while on the run from church and state alike or a young girl trying to seduce her attractive captor in order to win her freedom - might end in happiness.

It was not lost on her that she'd last felt each and all with Izlude and, despite that - or, perhaps, because of that - Alma smiled her true and crooked smile and said "I would be honored."

Relieved that his love did not find his new appearance displeasing, and still as enamored with that smile as he had been in those halcyon days at Riovanes, Izlude took her hand and carefully led her to the dance floor. As they did, the other guests watched with great interest, many quietly incredulous that their suit had been met with indifference but as many more startled by the how strange and yet striking a match the pair made. A red-headed duchess and an Ivalican-born Romandan knight was indeed an unusual pair, and yet there was no denying how attractive his glossy ebon locks against her fiery crimson tresses were...


	23. To Win His Lady Fair: Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Ok, the plot now thickens! Someone at the ball finally notices that "Damien" is not who he appears to be. Who is this stranger and why is he vying for Alma's hand? Once again, I would like to thank my co-writer and editor, Falchion1984 for his help in making this fic possible.

All watching, seeing the pair as they waltzed, dipped, spun on the dance floor, though still perplexed as to what had roused the duchess from her long indifference towards her suitors, sensed that this man, who'd appeared seemingly from nowhere at the eleventh hour, might be the one to claim her hand.

Now that everyone's attention was fixed squarely on the Duchess Catherine and Sir Damien, the king and queen were free to leave their thrones and slip quietly into the crowd. After asking to be excused, and with her husband's consent, Ovelia went to join Agrias as well as Reis, Lavian, and Alicia, all of whom were eagerly cooing over Rachel and snickering over the small misfortune she'd inflicted upon Ramza. Rad and Beowulf, as well as Manon and Charlotte were watching from the far side of the ballroom, and it almost looked like the two children were quietly cheering for Alma's latest suitor. Meanwhile, Ramza chose to remain alone as he quietly watched his sister, relieved that she was finally showing some genuine interest in someone. In fact, as their whirling waltz strayed close enough, he saw that Alma was smiling. Truly smiling, with that crooked smile of hers, at long last.

That had been a welcome sight, and one that couldn't have come too soon for the overwrought duke. After the first ball had ended with a veritable horde of young men all failing to get so much as a glimmer out of the duchess, he'd begun to despair. Not only had the entire first night ended with nothing to show for it, but he could literally feel time slipping away as the point where Alma could no longer hide her pregnancy, let alone pass off the baby as that of the prevailing suitor, looming ever nearer.

The two siblings had quite a row over that. Ramza had lambasted Alma for being irresponsible with her unborn child's future, and Alma had promptly thrown it back in his face by reminding him that he and Agrias had not only had Rachel out of wedlock but that they still had each other. Their feud had come to an abrupt end when Alma passed out from the strain and, though neither she nor the baby had suffered harm, Ramza had nearly gotten his ear bitten off when a furious Agrias learned what had happened.

Ramza had half expected tonight's ball to go about the same, if not worse, and this impression was borne out by the succession of disappointed men who'd paraded away from the dance floor.

So, Ramza tried to distract himself as best he could with his adorable daughter while trying not to think of how his nephew or niece might be consigned to the life of a bastard child before even being born.

Rachel had been quite obliging. When she spat up on his new doublet, he'd been very distracted indeed.

But now, at long last, it seemed a suitor had arrived who was to Alma's liking.

Not only that, but it looked like Manon and Charlotte seemed to share the sentiment, for the two children had pushed their way to the very edge of the dance floor and were watching the waltz with restrained exuberance. That had been nearly as much a surprise as either Alma's change of heart or her suitor's exotic features, as the children had watched prior contenders with either skepticism or outright suspicion.

The Duke of Lionel couldn't guess why, but it almost looked like the children wanted this particular suitor to succeed. Inexplicable though it was, Ramza hoped that the approval of her unlikely stepchildren might be enough to sway Alma and, at long last, make sure her child had a father.

And, maybe, Izlude would rest a bit easier knowing the child he'd unknowingly sired was in good hands.

It wasn't over yet, since there was still the matter of making sure this suitor married Alma soon enough that he could believe the child to be his own and, though the Duke of Lionel hardly relished the prospect, drawing up a contingency plan in case he wasn't fooled. And, of course, that was leaving aside the bones that might be broken when Meliadoul learned the truth. But, for now, Ramza relished an overdue chance to relax.

So lost in thought was he that the young duke did not notice the approach of his old friend and king, until Delita gently tapped him on the shoulder.

Ramza almost jumped out of his skin, but heaved a sigh of relief when he saw Delita. The young king, no doubt recalling some similar instance from bygone days, chuckled at Ramza's reddening cheeks. The laughter was subdued, and his smile didn't quite reach his eyes, and yet this was still a marked improvement over the man who had nearly been broken under the weight of the many heinous acts he'd committed in order to win his crown.

Most people would've find it quite fitting, had they known the truth behind his legend. This was a Machiavellian of the highest order who had commandeered the long laid plans for the War of the Lions, bent it to his will, and then goaded his enemies into killing each other until those who were left could do little more than bend their necks before his blade. Most people would've found it quite fitting to see such a man reduced to a quivering mass of anguish as his long chained and muzzled conscience broke free and crushed his self-righteous delusions to pulp. Most people would've even found malicious amusement in watching Delita alternately howl his despair to the heavens and vainly try to disembowel the mocking phantasm of Algus Sandalfas.

Most people would've concluded that he'd deserved it and then walked away, leaving him to be dragged under whatever sea of madness yet roiled in his skull.

But, most people would never have unmasked the Lucavi demons, let alone opposed them. Most people would not have ventured across the length and breadth of Ivalice to chase down the long lost Zodiac Stones, not to use their enigmatic power but to safeguard them against those with evil intent. And, most people would've either overlooked the likelihood that Delita's slow descent into madness might very well reignite the War of the Lions...or even seek to exploit that likelihood.

Ramza was not "most people". And, even if he could never approve of what Delita had done, Ramza yet found it in him to forgive. What's more, either as Ramza Beoulve or Drake Seymour, he still had a duty to ensure that the horrors of the War of the Lions did not revisit Ivalice while she was still battered and bleeding.

And so, where most people would've left Delita to be devoured by madness, or even repay his treacherous acts with a knife in the back to match the many he'd dispensed, Ramza instead chose to pull Delita back from the brink.

Because, whatever else Delita might be, he was still the king and, very likely, the only person who might yet set Ivalice on a course towards a better future. And, more to the point, in spite of everything, he was still Ramza's friend.

Though Ramza's absolution had only been a first step in healing the troubled man, it did the duke good to see Delita calm, alert, and in fair spirits, not to mention looking as relieved Ramza to see Alma finally show interest in someone.

"Oh, you startled me! I'm so sorry, Your Majesty," the duke whispered.

The king laughed, a bit too quietly. "It's fine. You don't have to call me that when it's just the two of us."

That got a brief smile out of Ramza, but his expression quickly became serious as he eyed his old friend earnestly.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

This was not the first time he'd asked since he'd intervened to snatch Delita back from the edge, nor was it the first time Delita's eyes hadn't been able to meet Ramza's as he'd considered his answer.

"Ask me again sometime," he replied, his deflecting the question and his gaze straying towards Ovelia making it clear that, though the king's mind might have been saved, the road to recovery yet remained long and the damage done to his marriage yet lingered. Still, after a moment's introspection, Delita turned to face Ramza and tried again for his old smile. "So, I take it you approve of your sister's choice?"

"Well, as long as he treats her well and makes her happy, that's all I can ask," Ramza admitted, knowing better than to mention the baby while in public.

Before Delita could reply, they both heard approaching footsteps. Turning, they saw a dusky-skinned young man with dark hair and eyes. More eye catching than his exotic complexion, however, was his garb. He was dressed in an elegant thawb, a robe of airy white satin favored by the lost peoples of the Zeklaus Desert, embroidered with patterns of gold and bisected by a green and red sash draped across one shoulder which traveled to his lower waist. In place of his customary quarterstaff, an elegant backsword with a curved blade, known as a scimitar, rested at his hip.

"Sire, my lord, Please forgive me for intruding. My sister and I had only just arrived."

"Ahh, yes, you are the new Duke of Favoham, Malak Galthana, correct?" Delita asked.

Malak bowed as he took the king's hand and pressed it to his forehead as Ramza had done before him.

"It's an honor to meet you, Your Majesty. I, too, pledge my loyalty to the crown of Ivalice. My sister has left my company to join your wife, but I would introduce her to you later, if it pleases you."

"But of course," Delita acknowledged, offering a heroic attempt at his usual, bright smile.

"You mean Duchess Rafa? How is she?" Ramza asked. "Have both of you been well?"

Malak nodded. "We've been…preoccupied with managing our estate and the schools our adoptive father left us in his will," he admitted, a hint of fatigue in his tone. "As you may know, very few survived the Horror of Riovanes. And, of those who did, none are inclined to return. Luckily, we took a leaf out of Lady Catherine's book and put the children to work keeping up the castle, at least until adoptive parents come knocking or they're old enough to make their own way. We've also been able to procure the services of those who can educate them so that they can find honest work. It hasn't been easy, especially since many of these children were part way through their conditioning to become assassins, but we're doing everything we can."

"That is unfortunate, that you're faced with such difficulties; still, it's impressive that you've managed as much as you have, especially after what happened a few months ago," Delita said, sympathy and admiration apparent in his voice.

"Fear not, Your Majesty, things have gotten much better. We still have a ways to go, but I have faith that my sister and I will make good of what the late Duke Barrington has left behind."

"As do I. Still, it isn't just Favoham; all of Ivalice still has a long, hard road to travel if we are to reach a better future. But, so far, the signs have very encouraging. It will take some time, and it will not be pleasant, but we will pull through," Delita assured, speaking with a fire that seemed more a blaze than the feeble puffs of smoke he'd uttered during the prior evening. "And, I'm sure Duke Seymour shares that faith...and a willingness to support the effort to bring about that future."

Ramza had, more than once, been told that he sorely lacked the ability to read between the lines, some such pronouncements coming from himself, but it was obvious just what his old friend was so obliquely referring to.

The Duke of Lionel had pulled his king back from the edge of madness and despair but, as some cynics would say, "no good deed went unpunished".

Perhaps it was the lingering haze of despair mingled with the rays of absolution brightening a previously bleak and gloomy future. Maybe it was the wish to, at least vicariously, give back to Ramza what should have been his as the progeny of the great Sir Balbanes Beoulve.

Or, perhaps Delita was, finally, speaking the truth when he said he wished for someone within his inner circle who was neither enamored nor intimidated by him and would, as he'd said, keep him honest.

 _Still, becoming the Grandmaster of the Order of the Chimera?_ Ramza mused, still just barely able to keep his jaw from dropping at the recollection.

Most people, especially those who had either been born in less-than-enviable circumstances, or those who'd dreamed of knighthood but had been passed over for whatever reason, or those who sought to make more of themselves through acts of valor, would've jumped at such an opportunity, especially when it was offered from the very lips of the king himself.

But, as was aforementioned, Ramza was not most people.

Though he was a gifted warrior, whose mastery of not only the sword but many other implements of war could impress even veterans twice his size and experience, he loathed fighting and had never taken a life without wishing he hadn't needed to. Though he was an outstanding leader, who had led a paltry force to victory against seemingly hopeless odds time and again while unfailingly keeping each and all alive, he inwardly dreaded the weight of responsibility and quailed at the prospect of a friend dying because of some lapse of judgment on his part.

Shouldering that weight for a little over a score of unlikely warriors had been quite enough, but helming a knightly order, even in peacetime, would mean that weight of responsibility would swell to many hundreds of lives.

Granted, he'd have the aid of Agrias, Beowulf, and his former classmates from the former Hokuten Academy, allowing him to manage juggling the sizable tasks of commanding the order and governing Lionel, but, as with so much in his young and strange life, it all seemed so enormous while he seemed so small. And, it seemed as though there was no shortage of souls far more suited to command than he.

Yet, as was the case during the War of the Lions, those same souls, whom he'd privately informed in hopes they might tell him how to refuse a king, seemed quite convinced that he was the perfect candidate.

As if the thought had been a summons, Beowulf joined them, the Templar's subtle grin making it clear that he'd sniffed out the underlying meaning of Delita's words.

"I certainly believe, Your Majesty, that you'd never find a better ally," Beowulf intoned, much too happily for Ramza's tastes, and the duke conveyed this by mouthing _"traitor"._

This did not go unnoticed by Malak, who raised an eyebrow curiously. Beowulf promptly took the hint, and promptly ignored Ramza's desperate attempts to wave him off, whispering Delita's offer into Malak's ear. Ramza entertained the hope that Malak might be more sensible than the others who'd heard this royal request and should have reacted by urging the king to reconsider, but those hopes were dashed when the Duke of Favoham gave his young peer an approving nod.

"You're all demented," Ramza whispered, just barely loud enough for the three men to hear. "Even if I wanted the post, which I don't, do you really think the Chimera Knights will take orders from someone like me?"

"Why not?" Beowulf asked, though the question sounded suspiciously rhetorical. "I did, and there's not been a day I've regretted it. And, before you bring up Reis's abduction, I blamed Bremondt for that, not you. And, it was only with your aid that he got his comeuppance and rescued Reis."

Here, Beowulf paused and clapped a hand on Ramza's shoulder.

"In recent years, there have been far too many commanders who have measured victory by who had more men yet standing when the battle is done, even when those were far outnumbered by those left for the carrion eaters," he intoned gravely. "We saw this in Larg, Goltana, Dycedarg, and Ruveila...amongst others, and we saw tens of thousands of promising young souls needlessly lost because of it. It is my hope that war does not visit this land again while I yet draw breath, but, if it does, we can afford no commanders who will waste the lives of their troops, spending their blood like so much gil. You? I've seen you take great pains to make sure those under your command kept their lives, even when it meant hazarding your own. And, I've also seen you show a willingness to wield diplomacy rather than a blade when it might avert needless death, and which might've spared thousands if Larg and Goltana had bothered to do likewise."

"Yes, I tried talking to the enemy, but how often did they actually _listen?"_ Ramza asked, posing a rhetorical question of his own.

"I listened," Malak spoke up, before a self-deprecating smile crossed his lips. "Maybe later than I should have, but I did. And, so did Meliadoul."

"What else can I say? Most of your enemies were sorely lacking in wisdom," Beowulf said after shooting Malak an appreciative smile. "Most would yet live if they'd accepted your olive branch. Yet, that also proves my point. Most would simply press the attack against an enemy they know they can defeat, even if the enemy is unaware of this or besting them would cost too many lives. But, you showed mercy...tried to, anyway, because you see the value of human lives, even of those who wish you harm. That is a rare quality, and one that Ivalice could use more of as we journey towards this new future."

"And it wouldn't bother you to take orders from someone much younger than you and who doesn't have even half your experience or seniority?" Ramza asked, unable to hide his skepticism.

"It never bothered me before, so why should it now?" the Templar asked, shrugging carelessly.

Ramza, sensing he'd find Beowulf as immovable as the castle they stood in, turned to Malak, but the Duke of Favoham smiled and shook his head.

"Sorry, Drake, but I have to agree with Beowulf," Malak said, not sounding the least bit sorry. "On top of everything else, you saved Rafa's life and helped her when she was on the run. Not to mention you helped me after I'd tried to kill you several times. Yes, I know you think that's water under the bridge, but it means a lot. After what happened back then, I doubt anyone would've blamed you if you just let the worms munch on me. And, trust me, I was positive that "I'm sorry" wouldn't have cut it."

"Well, that's more than a lot of people are willing to give," Ramza pointed out before he could think better of it. "You had good reason to want me dead...well, the people who wanted you to kill me were pretty convincing. I don't hold it against you that your trust was misplaced. After all, practically my whole life since Fort Zeakden happened the way it did because my trust was misplaced too."

Delita's eyes misted at the backhanded reference to Teta. Beowulf and Malak, familiar with the story, nodded solemnly.

"Still, not many people give second chances like you do," Malak said. "A lot of people don't give second chances, period. How often did you hear about some young officer getting in over their head, or being deliberately sent on a suicide mission because he angered this duke or that? That's another reason I think you'd be a great Grandmaster. You're not too green for the job, and as for being too young? That's a load of bollocks. True, there's not much you can do about that face, but..."

"Oh, shut up! Look, I appreciate the vote of confidence. I really do. But, there has got to be someone better. Besides, going by what His Majesty tells me, my biggest selling point is that I punched him in the face."

Having heard this part of the tale already, Beowulf gave a transparent mockery of a scandalized gasp while Malak, picking up his cue smoothly, feigned the act of swooning from shock.

"Hardy, har, har," the Duke of Lionel quipped. "But, there has got to be someone else. Someone older, more experienced, more...more like...Lord Balbanes or Count Orlandu."

"Firstly, we don't have Lord Balbanes or Count Orlandu, and Ivalice is the lesser for it," Delita said solemnly. "Secondly, nearly everyone we do have is either so enamored with my legend, or so intimidated by me, that they'd never object if I gave an order that should be questioned. Thirdly, we do have you and, on top of all the other praise we've made you blush with, we also know that you'd never let me get away with repeating the misrule of my predecessors. You'd stand up to me, you'd call me out, and you'd offer a better solution...something I wish I'd been able to do for myself."

Delita's words trailed away as he gave a forlorn sidelong glance towards Ovelia, who noticed his scrutiny but could not meet his gaze. But, a moment later, the king assumed an air of hollow flippancy and continued.

"And, fourthly, Teta punched harder than you do, Drake," he added with a snicker.

Looking much like a man being sent to the gallows, Ramza threw up his hands in resignation.

"Look, I'll think about it," he said, almost sadly. "I imagine you won't let me get away without doing that much, at least?"

"Not a chance," the three men chorused.

After that pronouncement, to Ramza's overwhelming relief, the impromptu conference took on a serious, but still cordial air and Delita expressed his wish that, regardless of who was doing what, each and all would do what they could to make Ivalice great again.

"Indeed," Ramza said. "And, Malak, I hope you will get a chance to come see me at Lionel after Catherine is married."

Malak nodded. "It is my hope as well, Duke Seymour. In fact, I would ask a boon of you."

"Malak, we've stood in battle and bled together. Anything I can do you help you, you need only ask."

Ramza could swear the Duke of Favoham was blushing a bit, but the Netherseer soon regained his composure and nodded his appreciation.

"I would like to discuss the possibility of an exchange program of sorts between our respective wards," he began. "If you agree, some of the children in Lionel Castle could live in Riovanes Castle for several weeks while some of the children at Riovanes can travel to Lionel. Most of these children have had hard lives and it won't be easy for them to learn to trust others or to fit in beyond the castle walls. But, I think it would do them some good to meet other adults who do care about what happens to them, and other children who are in the same situation but who are working to better lives. I've heard that some of the children in Lionel have been doing very well, and they might help make what I'm trying to do more believable to my wards."

Here, Malak paused and, after a moment's hesitation, added "I was also wondering if Lavian might be willing to accompany the children traveling from Lionel to Riovanes. So that they have a familiar face while they're there."

Despite his reputation for naïveté, Ramza could easily discern that Malak had an ulterior motive in asking for Lavian to be the go-between for this interchange. In the letter he'd sent not long after Ramza and company had settled in Lionel, the Duke of Favoham had expressed his appreciation for Lavian's steadfast friendship towards Rafa and how she'd helped his sister move past the horrors Duke Barrington had visited upon her behind closed doors. Malak had also shown much admiration for Lavian when she'd driven home the point that his fuming over his being fooled by the deviant duke only made Rafa feel worse. He'd also expressed chivalrous distaste towards Lavian's inclusion in Rad's rude games.

Confirmation came when Lavian, spying the Netherseer, waved merrily and Malak smiled brightly, both at the former summoner and at how she'd belatedly noticed Rafa and pulled the Duchess of Favoham into a tight, sisterly hug. Much like her brother, Rafa wore an outfit that recaptured the fashion of her lost homeland; namely a strapless gown that descended near her ankles in cascades of silk the color of twilight while a veil of translucent pink fluttered down to the backs of her knees. Rounding out the ensemble were a pair of triangular earrings and snake armlet, both wrought of burnished gold.

Recalling how Barrington's abuses had once left Rafa terrified of most men, and even skittish around the women of Ramza's company, not to mention the schism that had arisen between her and Malak until Barrington had let slip proof of his deviancy, Ramza could guess at how it did Malak's heart good to see her mingling amongst the crowd and chatting with friends when she'd once feared she'd have none.

Ramza could guess at it because he too was an older brother with a younger sister whose wellbeing and happiness was dear to him. And, he was willing to wager that his guess was a good one.

"I think it's a fine idea, and I'd be honored," Ramza said, though he had to repeat himself to get Malak's attention, prompting a snicker from him, as well as Delita and Beowulf, the latter hastily departing, lest the relentless hilarity make Reis a widow, or so he claimed.

"It's good to hear that you approve," Malak said, trying to recover his dignity. "When I first struck on the notion, I…"

The other duke abruptly trailed off, almost completely forgetting about Ramza and Delita when he saw Alma and her suitor dancing out of the corner of his eye. He hadn't paid much attention to the young pair when he and Rafa arrived, but now that their waltz had taken them a bit closer, Malak could not help but notice something peculiar about the knight dancing with the duchess.

And, it had nothing to do with the exotic color of his hair and eyes.

Ramza and Delita noticed Malak's distraction as well. Concerned, Ramza asked "What is it, Lord Malak?"

Malak narrowed his eyes as he tried to get a better look at the raven-haired suitor. "That knight… the one dancing with your sister…"

Ramza blinked. "Yes, what about him?"

"Call me crazy, but I can't help but feel that I've seen him somewhere before."

Puzzled, Delita followed the Duke of Favoham's gaze to spy the duchess and her favored suitor as they continued their waltz. Though he'd been deeply relieved that Alma seemed to have finally chosen a suitor, he'd paid scant attention before to just who had been the prevailing contender. But, now that he had a bit of a closer look at the man in question, he realized that he, too, felt as though he had seen the raven-haired knight before. Granted, he'd was positive he'd never seen a man with such exotic features before tonight, though the visiting Romandan boyar hadn't been shy about relaying the man's tale, and Delita was positive that meeting such a man before tonight would've stuck in his memory. And yet, the bizarre sense of familiarity persisted, causing his eyebrows to rise until they vanished into his hairline.

"Why yes… he _does_ seem familiar!" Delita exclaimed. "I can't make sense of it, but it's like I've seen...not the face, but the person wearing it. His bearing or his expression, perhaps. He doesn't look familiar, but he _feels_ familiar. What do you think, Drake? You're the one who's been watching them all this time."

Ramza turned to follow the whirling journey of his sister and her favorite suitor again. Although he had been watching them for quite some time, he had not realized that he also found the raven-haired knight eerily familiar. As was the case with Delita, however, he was positive that he'd not seen this man before.

Indeed, the only other Romandan man he'd ever met before today was the merchant his father invited to Igros when he and Alma were children. But, that merchant and the knight before him now could not be the same person, for the merchant had been nearly as old as Balbanes was whereas Alma's suitor looked to be the same age as Alma herself. Furthermore, he distinctly remembered the merchant eying himself and Alma with a sad eye and expressing to Balbanes a bit of envy that he was unmarried and childless. That ruled out the possibility of this knight being the merchant's son for, even if the merchant had had a family since then, the knight was too old to be the child of such an overdue union.

And that meant...actually, Ramza had no idea what it meant. But, his earlier elation was sinking while perplexity tinged with suspicion began to fill the void.

"You're right. Even _I_ think I've seen him somewhere before," he admitted.

"It can't be coincidence," Malak insisted. "What's his name? Rafa and I arrived a bit late, so we didn't get to hear his formal introduction."

"He claims to be a Wyvern knight by the name of Damien Mitchell," Delita answered. "Olan told me that he was the last suitor to arrive before I ordered that no more suitors be admitted. Catherine is not an easy woman to please, and our attempts have been a bit expensive. Still, I have heard that he's a Favoham native, raised in Yardow. He's Ivalician-born, and I'm told his features are attributable to his being of Romandan descent."

At the mention of the Wyvern knight's name, Malak's eyes widened and his head snapped in the direction of the king and his fellow duke. The urgency in his gaze caused both men to draw back a pace.

"Damien Mitchell?!"

"Yes," Ramza answered, hesitantly. "Why? Do you know him, Malak?"

It was a simple question, but the answer was anything but.

Though Malak's belatedly learning of the depths of Duke Barrington's betrayal and depravity had cut short both his fealty to the villain and his tutelage as an assassin, Malak had nonetheless spent many years learning his deadly trade and had devoured every morsel of knowledge that he could. And, even after winning his freedom after Barrington had been hurled from the roof of his own keep - too merciful an end, in Malak's opinion - the Duke of Favoham yet retained much of his...unique education.

And, aside from how best to kill his prey, he'd also learned how to stalk them; how to watch them without being spotted in turn, how to follow them without being detected, how to observe and commit to memory their routines and habits, their circle of friends and opinions.

Simply put, everything he would need to not only identify threats from outside his onetime lord's abode, but from within as well.

Malak had also kept a close watch on many of Barrington's advisors and bodyguards, on the alert for any sign of treachery. There had been a Damien Mitchell amongst the latter group. He'd been a Wyvern knight, he'd been born and raised in Yardow, and he was of Romandan descent...

...but, that man had little else in common with the one presently dancing with Alma.

First of all, whereas the Damien Mitchell who swayed with Alma on the dance floor had ghostly pale skin, the Damien Mitchell who Malak recalled was quite tan. Second, while the Damien he beheld had jet-black hair and steel gray eyes, the Damien he'd spied upon some time ago instead had dark brown hair and blue eyes. And, third, though Malak was positive that the Damien he'd kept under surveillance was of Romandan descent, he had kept that particular fact close to his vest, as it were.

Why this was specifically, Malak never found out. One possibility was that, like many Romadan expatriates, he, or his forbearers, had fled to Ivalice when the Romandan czar's crown had changed hands, passing to one they had cause to fear. Much like wrathful Ivalician kings of bygone, darker eras, some Romandan czars were easily angered by even the slightest infractions or whispered word against them, and more often than not chastised those responsible with violence.

Just as likely was that Damien, or his forbearers, had fled after offending a boyar who had a long memory, and a short temper, when it came to those who'd angered him. It was also possible that Damien Mitchell had attracted the interest of the criminal bands who lurked in the insulated communities of Romandan immigrants, either because this crime lord or that wanted to secure his services and, with it, gain an agent within Riovanes Castle. It was also possible that whomever Damien Mitchell had slighted in Romanda had offered the right price for the expatriate criminals to do the Wyvern Knight harm.

Damien had never mentioned any of this, likely knowing what damage it would do to his standing in Riovanes, and Malak himself learned this only via his surveillance. Whatever the exact reason, that Damien had avoided his fellow Romandans and, when he ran afoul of them and they jabbered at him in their native tongue, he'd feigned incomprehension only to secretly return to the safety of his quarters - and, unwittingly, to his unseen observer - and then begin cursing quietly in the language of distant shores.

So, since that Damien Mitchell had taken great pains to avoid identified as being of Romandan descent, how had Delita identified him so easily?

"You said he was of Romandan stock," Malak asked, urgently. "Are you sure of that?"

"I heard it from our visiting Romandan boyar, Dmitri," Delita replied. "And, please don't ask me to give that man's full name and title. Pretty please. The boyar told me that the pair talked at length about Romanda, which Damien Mitchell played their game of wits well, and even spoke a Romandan phrase or two. Then, later, the two of them sat with Catherine's wards, telling stories about Romandan folklore."

Recalling that the Damien Mitchell he knew had concealed his Romandan heritage, it made no sense for the same Damien Mitchell to be advertising it now. If he or his forbearers had left Romanda due to raising the ire of the local nobility, then conversing so freely with a boyar made even less sense, as the boyar might be the very one who sought a pound of Damien's flesh or was acquainted with whoever did and might share such a discovery.

Simply put, aside from the physical discrepancies, this Damien Mitchell was behaving quite the opposite, the exact opposite, of the Damien Mitchell who Malak remembered.

Malak weighed what he recalled seeing of Damien Mitchell then and what he'd seen and heard this evening. And, he came to one inescapable conclusion.

The Damien Mitchell he'd surveilled and the Damien Mitchell who was dancing with Alma were not the same man.

That, in turn, gave rise to a host of question, but they all really boiled down to two: Who was this man? And, why was he vying for Alma's hand?

Deciding to find out, Malak parted company with the two men, taking long, urgent strides while trying to gauge just where "Damien" would go once the dance had ended. "Please excuse me, Your Majesty, my lord."

"Wait, where are you going?" Ramza demanded as he forgot himself and grabbed Malak's shoulder, forcibly turning the Netherseer around to face him.

"Forgive me, Drake. But, I have the feeling that your sister's suitor is not who he claims to be. I must keep an eye on him. I will ask Rafa to watch your sister, and I strongly recommend you do the same."

"Are you sure, Lord Galthana?" Delita asked as he rejoined them, concern and urgency edging his words.

Malak was silent for a moment as he turned in the direction of Alma and the imposter once more, wending his way through the crowd for the best vantage point while Ramza and Delita followed suit. By now, the dance was almost over and the young couple, knowing they were expected to part as the orchestra concluded their tune, drew one another close one more time before the last notes sounded.

Although he knew he would have to let Alma go eventually, and that the moment would come all too soon, Izlude nonetheless wanted to hold the woman he loved for just a moment longer. What's more, he sensed that she felt the same, for she did not resist when he drew her close, nor did she hesitate to lean into his broad frame.

"It's been an honor to meet you, my lady," he said softly. "I really enjoyed myself and hope you will consent to see me again soon."

Alma blushed and smiled. "I feel the same, Sir Damien. The ball will be for one more night. Perhaps you will be back tomorrow?"

Excited that he now had Alma's attention, Izlude was about to accept when he suddenly felt something against his armor.

It was a pulse of motion that connected with his breastplate, tiny and yet enough to send subtle reverberations up and down the metal...and into the man wearing it.

It was as if something very small, and yet remarkably vibrant, had reached out and _kicked_ him.

"What was that?" the knight blade asked in confusion. He didn't have to be specific, for one look at Alma told him that she must have felt it as well. And, whatever it was had alarmed her greatly, for her eyes widened and she gasped as she quickly placed a hand over her belly.

"I…I'm sorry, Sir Damien," she blurted out, her words nearly lost amidst the sort of ragged, heaving breaths one might expect if Hashmalum had risen again to renew his hunt for her blood. "But, I must go now!"

Before Izlude could say anything, the duchess turned on her heel and started to make her way out of the ballroom as quickly as her heavy gown would allow.

Apparently, the knight blade was not the only one who noticed Alma's strange behavior. The other guests were just as confused and, as was the wont of all Lesalians, were gossiping and speculating as to the meaning of the display. Nonetheless, they parted to clear a path for the duchess as she very nearly broke into a run, angling for the nearest exit.

Bewildered as to what had gone wrong, but determined not to lose her, Izlude found himself following Alma. And desperate as he was not to lose her amidst the sprawling castle or the roiling crowds, he nonetheless nursed the hope that he had not somehow given some offense grave enough to drive her away. Certainly not after he'd come so far and endured so much to find her again. If he had, Izlude was determined to find out what and set it right.

Yet, as often happened in Lesalia, the simplest and most important questions were overlooked.

Just what was it Izlude had felt, and why would its sudden occurrence alarm Alma so?

When he saw the imposter finally make his move, Malak, fearing it meant the man posing as Damien Mitchell had ill intentions, took it as a cue to follow. Prying Ramza's hand from his shoulder, the Duke of Favoham gave a quick bow to him and Delita before speaking with quick and urgent words.

"Please forgive my rudeness, both of you, but I must speak to this Damien Mitchell myself. I will do my best to explain later."

And, before either the King of Ivalice or Duke of Lionel could stop or question him further, Malak turned heel and began his pursuit of the man who called himself Damien Mitchell.

He'd been well trained in what signs to look for while surveilling his quarry, whether they be signs to sheathe his blade or to drive it through their breast. And, right now, that precarious balance was swaying towards the latter.


	24. Spirit of a Knightblade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Alma flees the ballroom, Izlude follows her only to find that he is being pursued himself by another young man seeking answers. Wondering if she had made a mistake in running out on Damien, Alma sulks and is given words of comfort and encouragement by Ovelia. Meliadoul, who is among to last to arrive at the ball, finds a surprisingly familiar chocobo in the stables upon her arrival that could be the link to her 'dead' brother...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hi, it's Elly3981 again. I want to thank all the readers and reviewers who have been keeping up with this story for the last two years. Though scarce, I'm grateful for the encouragement to continue since it keeps the muse going so to speak, lol. Once again, I'd like to thank my co-writer and editor, Falchion1984 for his help in making this fic possible. The lovely artwork is by Arisa777-o-w-o of DeviantArt. Enjoy and please review! ;)

The scene on the dance floor had caused the ever-fertile fields of Lesalian gossip to bloom once more with a fresh crop.

Given the lingering enigmas which yet shrouded Duchess Catherine Seymour, the king's young cousin who'd sprung seemingly from nowhere and then had tongues wagging and hearts pounding up and down the social stage, the sight of her in flight from one of her suitors had injected fresh wonderment into this mystery of a lady. As was often the case, this sudden twist was a welcome development, for, though this series of balls had been designed to find Duchess Catherine a husband, her seeming to find one in the Wyvern Knight of Romandan extraction had come too soon for most, causing the tale to end with an anticlimax that mingled in perfect sourness with the envy of those suitors who'd been met with polite indifference by the duchess.

But now, a twist! Something to set flagging interest flapping anew upon a fresh breeze of excited conjectures and idle speculations made in the heat of frivolous excitement which was the favorite pastime of all native Lesalians.

Izlude, being a native Lesalian himself and far from innocent where wagging tongues were concerned, knew this well. Knew also that rumors about him, and why "Duchess Catherine" was running away from him, were being woven, rewoven, and made increasingly embarrassing and ridiculous with every passing breath.

But, at the moment, he simply did not give a damn.

He had trekked dozens if not hundreds of leagues, dared a second death many times over, and spent months dreaming of reuniting with his beloved.

And, now, she was _running away!_

He could not lose her a second time.

"Duchess Catherine, please wait!" Izlude called out, his voice cracking with desperation as he attempted to follow Alma. By now, the pursuit had carried the pair beyond the ballroom and into the castle hallways.

Unfortunately, the ever-present gossipers had begun their chattering within the narrow gap between when Alma had flitted through their ranks and when Izlude attempted to follow her. Forced to wade, and sometimes shove, his way through the nattering magpies, he had lost sight of his love by the time he'd broken through.

Though he had grown up in South Lesalia and had been to the castle a few times, Izlude did not remember the layout of the castle too clearly, as it had been years since he'd last visited with his father. That Alma apparently had a keener memory would complicate his attempts to track her, and the sheer size of the castle, not to mention her head start, did not help matters either.

Still, the knight blade refused to give up. Forcing himself to calm down, he began heading in the direction he thought Alma had gone, while silently praying to the Holy Stone in his pocket to guide him to his love. He had come too far and worked too hard to lose her now.

As if hearing his silent plea, the stone started to glow and Izlude could feel it growing warm in his pocket. With some experimentation, he noticed the Holy Stone seemed to grow warmer when he headed in one direction and then cool down if he started to go astray from its unspoken guidance.

That the stone seemed to be guiding him came as no surprise, but he was thankful nonetheless.

Following its instructions, the disguised knight blade considered just where the stone might be taking him and, by extension, where Alma might be going. Though he still had no idea what had alarmed her so, he suspected she might be heading somewhere she could recover her wits in privacy. Off-hand, the most likely place seemed to be her quarters in Lesalia Castle's guest rooms. Izlude had only a hazy recollection of where those might be, but he suspected that the south tower was the most likely place.

Though not one square inch of Lesalia Castle was anything less than slathered in decadence, the south tower did offer a commanding view of the mountains he'd crossed travelling to and from Gollund.

A king could do a great many things to showcase his hospitality, and his wealth, for his guests' benefit, and making sure they could view such majestic peaks as they idly sipped tea on the balcony was a gesture that carried surprising import.

Given this expectation, and his faith that the Holy Stone would guide him to his beloved, one can imagine Izlude's surprise when the stone instead guided him on an easterly course.

From there, its capricious warmth chivvied him northward, then to the west, and finally south again.

 _Did you just take me in a circle?_ he silently asked the stone, confused trepidation seeping into his thoughts.

As had happened in the past, the stone gave off a pulse of energy that had a strangely reprimanding air and then guided him westward.

Bemused, but knowing he could scamper up and down the halls of the huge castle all night and not find Alma without guidance, Izlude had no choice but to hope that the Holy Stone will steer him in the right direction. And so far, it had remained warm until he found himself ascending a stairway that led out into the open air atop one of the castle's battlements.

Looking around, the knight blade spied a tower in the distance and assumed it must be the south tower. He was still curious why the stone had led him on such a roundabout course, since his hasty recollections told him that going directly south would've been quicker. A few possible explanations sprang to mind, such as there being unfriendly eyes waiting along that course and the stone either guiding him around them or diverting him until the way was clear, but somehow this did not ring true.

Shaking off the thought in confused resignation, knowing that the stone had many mysteries he might never unravel, Izlude turned his mind back to finding his love. Despite the bendy course he'd been led upon, his likely destination lay near, he just had to cross the battlement to get there. But as soon as Izlude took his first few steps, he felt the Holy Stone start to vibrate in his pocket, confirming another suspicion that had been nagging at him since he'd left the ballroom in pursuit of Alma.

Without turning around, Izlude suddenly spoke aloud. "You can come out now, whoever you are. I know you've been following me."

With a low chuckle, his pursuer answered. "Very astute. Normally, those I stalk do not detect my presence…until it is too late."

The voice sounded familiar, and Izlude turned to confront the person who had been stalking him. Emerging from the shadow of one of the nearby statues, stepping into the light of the full moon with the calm, deadly poise of a leonine predator, was a dusky-skinned young man with dark hair and hazel eyes. The knight blade recognized him right away as Malak Galthana, his friend from Riovanes whom he had known for only a few weeks prior to the tragic Lucavi massacre. Like himself, the netherseer was dressed formally, wearing a more elegant version of his customary garb which called to mind accounts of lost kingdoms amidst the sands ruled by monarchs who resided in marble palaces topped by lofty minarets. Izlude suspected that Malak's garb and presence at such an event as this ball meant that he was now the new Duke of Favoham, having inherited his adoptive father's title, lands, and fortune.

Recalling Rafa's tearful confession of what the man they'd once considered a father had done to her behind closed doors, and how Malak had raged at his failure to see it, the irony was not lost on either of the young men.

Not that Izlude had the luxury of pondering the strange twists life could take at the moment, for a sickening question had begun to work its way into his mind.

If the stone had kept him on a straighter course, might he have reached Alma without Malak catching up to him? Or, failing that, would this confrontation have happened after he'd spoken to Alma, maybe even with him having revealed his identity to her and being reunited for good and all?

Had the stone betrayed him by having him chase his tail while Malak closed in?

Had he misjudged its enigmatic intent, not realizing that it had wanted not to help him but to find a more suitable host for whatever demon lay ensconced within?

But, that didn't make sense either. By now, Malak had likely been around most of, if not all, of the other stones for some time. Surely, if he was susceptible to the Lucavi's demonic influence, he would've already been subverted. After all, Izlude had been carrying the Pisces Stone every minute of every day since his resurrection, and had yet to hear voices fell offering false promises spoken with forked tongues.

He refused to believe that the stone would guide him this far only to betray him, and yet he still could not fathom why else the stone would've deliberately allowed Malak to catch up with him. Unable to give answer, he chose instead to focus on his more immediate problems…

…such as the fact that he was in a deserted portion of the castle with a consummate assassin who was eyeing him with a less-than-friendly eye.

Hoping that his disguise would fool even Malak, Izlude feigned an expression of surprise and reverence while not allowing even a hint of recognition cross his features.

"Duke Galthana!" he gasped, sounding thunderstruck and hastily bowing. "This is an unexpected pleasure, and I am honored to meet you. If I may ask, milord, why have you been following me? Are you also interested in the Duchess of Lionel?"

The other young man narrowed his eyes. "Interested? I suppose you could say that. I'm very concerned for her. That's why I must ask: who exactly are you?"

Izlude was taken aback by Malak's question. Was he not present when the knight blade had made his formal introduction to the entire Ivalician court?

"Who am I? I am Sir Damien Mitchell, from the City of Yardow." Izlude replied, the well-practiced lie rolling off his tongue almost as easily as his birth name would have. "I am formerly a knight of the Order of the Wyverns, and was once a bodyguard to the late Duke of Favoham, Gerrith Barrington."

Malak glared at him. "Nonsense!" he snapped. "Do you take me for a fool? My adoptive father trusted Sir Damien and was rarely far from his side! I knew the man quite well…much more so than _he_ was aware, I might add. And, you are _not_ him! Come clean now, sir, who are you really?"

Izlude inwardly kicked himself for his oversight. Because the real Damien Mitchell had had no family, and since it was doubtful that any of his intimate friends had survived the Horror of Riovanes, Izlude had assumed that he'd never encounter anyone who'd known the real Damien well enough to spot any inconsistencies in his portrayal. How could he not have foreseen that Malak, the late Duke Barrington's adopted son, as well as his foremost assassin and chief enforcer, would know all of his adoptive father's bodyguards? Duke Barrington, as was the case with men who had broad power and no scruples, had many enemies and was ever on the alert for threats, both inside his domain as well as out. Thus, in order to protect himself, he had surely charged Malak with surveilling his bodyguards, keeping watch in case one of them should turn traitor.

The netherseer surely knew a great many things about the real Damien Mitchell…things which Izlude could barely even guess at.

Even so, the knight blade could not allow his true identity to slip.

As if reading his mind, Malak regarded him with the sharp, cunning eye of a hawk.

"I'll give you a chance to prove your claim, sir," he intoned, with palpable finality. "If you cannot, you will reveal your true self to me at once."

The disguised knight blade regarded his stalker in confusion, but decided to take any chance he could to convince Malak that he was indeed Damien Mitchell. With luck, the stone would discreetly guide his words, as it had so often guided his actions, so that he could diffuse the situation and be allowed to pursue his love in peace.

"Very well, what…what do you propose?" he asked, his voice wavering when the stone did not offer any sign that it approved of his unspoken plan.

Malak took a deep breath before speaking the question on his mind. "Years ago, Sir Damien came to my adoptive father, offering his service for nothing more than a roof over his head and three meals a day. This was the late duke's favorite price, since he was a tightfisted sort, preferring to spend only when the returns would vastly outweigh his losses. Spending nothing? Even better, in his opinion. Now, why do you think _Sir Damien_ did that?"

Izlude blinked, and then felt himself perspire as he realized that the stone was not intervening on his behalf. Perhaps it was the sense of abandonment after the stone had guided him so far, and through so much that would have otherwise seen him dead for the second and final time. Maybe it was the ongoing confusion, and even a sense of betrayal, over why the stone had, seemingly, misdirected him so that Malak might overtake him and force this confrontation. Quite possibly, it was the very real danger he now faced, for Malak was a proficient assassin and, aside from Ramza, none whom he'd marked for death had escaped his grasp.

Forcing himself to concentrate, Izlude searched his mind for a convincing answer. To his knowledge, no man would offer his service for free unless he was in dire need of protection. And, what better protection than a post as bodyguard to a high-ranking noble, whose guards were also expected to watch each other's backs as well as their lord's?

Hoping his guess was right, and drawing upon his knowledge of the tumultuous history of Damien's ancestral home, Izlude gave his answer.

"My family originally hailed from Romanda," he began, recalling a helpful tidbit from the book of Romandan history he'd acquired. "After Romanda was thrown back from Ivalician soil during the Fifty Years' War, the powerbase of the Romandan Czar, Ivan Krasnya Pukov the Terrible, was greatly weakened. His younger brother, Boris Gegarin Pukov the Relentless, sought to oust his brother and claim the throne. My family backed him, but he was defeated. Since I was in danger of being tried and executed as an enemy of the crown in my homeland, I fled here. However, I desperately needed to ensure that I could stay in Ivalice. Offering my service to your late adoptive father free of charge was the most likely way to avoid being deported and sent back to the Czar's waiting jaws."

To that, Malak grinned. "A very clever answer!" he opined, very nearly sounding amused. "It was a well told and detailed story, all said with much conviction. But, there's a problem. You see, not only did the real Sir Damien never make my adoptive father such an offer, but he'd also gone to great lengths to keep his Romandan ancestry a secret! There's a thriving underworld amongst Favoham's community of Romandan immigrants, and they often sought to buy, or coerce, Sir Damien's cooperation. People who deal in smuggling, prostitution, usury, and such would have an easy time avoiding the duke's eye if they have the ear of someone close to him…and being refused by a countryman tends to anger them. But, the real Sir Damien would always feign incomprehension when they spoke to him in native Romandan, only to mutter those same words to himself when he thought he was alone."

Here, Malak paused, his grin fading as his eyes once more narrowed into daggers.

"Now, if _Sir Damien_ did that, then it would make no sense for you to practically advertise your roots by rubbing elbows with boyars and dazzling children with tales of Romandan folklore," the netherseer pointed out, his words low and menacing.

"Admit it, impostor, you've lost. Now, you shall keep your end of the bargain."

Izlude gritted his teeth before giving his reply. "I'm sorry, my lord, but I cannot."

The netherseer palmed the hilt of his own sword as his eyes glittered dangerously.

"No? Then perhaps this shall loosen your tongue!"

And without another word, Malak quickly tore his sword free of its scabbard. With the speed of a viper, he charged at Izlude, who quickly drew his own blade. Although he did not come here with the intention to fight, the other man gave him no choice. Izlude knew he could not let his true identity slip, and he would do anything to protect it.

Even if it meant fighting and possibly killing a man he'd once called friend.

As a former assassin, the new Duke of Favoham was skilled in the use of many weapons, even though his preferred weapon was a quarterstaff since it offered the advantage of reach and the ability to subdue a foe and take them alive if needed. His scimitar, for all its elegance, was very much a killing implement and, between its keen, razor thin edge and the far greater keenness of Malak's eye, it could easily pass through the miniscule gaps in Izlude's armor plates…and then into the flesh beneath.

Knowing this, and knowing that counterattacking would be much akin to trying to catch a wasp in a jar, Izlude held himself in a defensive posture. He batted aside Malak's weapon, but never struck back, all while never allowing his blade, or his arm, to move a hairsbreadth more than was necessary. When pressed, he gave ground, forcing Malak to stride and attack all at once.

"You fight well for a mere bodyguard!" Malak exclaimed, though seemingly out of vindication rather than concern, as Izlude successfully deflected one attack after another. Though the disguised knight blade's weapon could likely slice Malak in half, Izlude had the considerable disadvantage of wielding a heavier broadsword to his opponent's lighter scimitar.

Worse, Izlude was further encumbered by his armor, which was more ostentation than protection, whereas Malak's elegant silks, though billowy enough to catch the air as he moved, did little to rob him of the speed and agility that went hand-in-hand with his dark, former profession.

Malak fought not only with great speed and deadly skill, but also with a poise and grace more evocative of dancing than combat. Meant to daunt and distract the opponent, and Izlude was willing to bet it was quite effective at both, it did carry the risk that, in a drawn-out engagement, it would tire the user if they failed to kill the enemy fairly soon.

Izlude's best chance was to make sure time was his ally, rather than Malak's. But, as he was pointedly reminded when the netherseer's scimitar whispered past his leg and drew blood, this was easier said than done.

When they locked swords, Malak leaned closer to stare Izlude in the eye. His hazel orbs afire with deadly intent as he lowered his voice and snarled.

"Were you indeed Sir Damien, you would not have lasted five seconds against me!" he said, once more sounding vindicated rather than distressed. "Not only that, you are also intimately familiar with my fighting style! Only two men have witnessed it and lived to remember!"

Izlude said nothing, but he knew Malak was right. When they had first met in Riovanes a few weeks before Alma's arrival, and the infamous massacre, Malak had approached him and expressed his desire to test his own sword-fighting skills against one of the Templar's finest.

And Izlude, never one to turn down a challenge, was more than happy to oblige. In a few short sparring sessions, he became familiar with Malak's fighting style and, even though they had not intended to fight to the death, the other young man could very well have accidentally killed Izlude had the knight blade not been able to match his opponent's skill with the sword and counteract the netherseer's superior speed.

Knowing that his ceremonial armor was unlikely to hold up if Malak's blade slipped past his guard, Izlude did his best to keep that slender blade well away. He'd hoped that, with Malak's reliance on darting around and making sudden lunges, that an impregnable defense might tire or frustrate him into making a blunder. When such a window of opportunity appeared, Izlude might be able to end the duel quickly and, possibly, without taking his opponent's life. If he could somehow knock Malak's sword out of his hand, Izlude should be able to force the other young man to bargain his life against abandoning his pursuit of "Damien's" true identity.

But, just as the netherseer began to tire and the knight blade made ready for a blow that would take Malak's sword, perhaps along with the hand that held it, both men froze when they heard a sharp voice cut in.

"That's enough! Both of you, stop this at once, lest you draw the attention of the castle guards!"

Startled by the familiar voice, both Izlude and Malak lowered their swords to see the Duke of Lionel at the doorway of the stairs leading up from the castle hallway, his hand on the frame and panting slightly as if he had been running to catch up to them.

"My lord, I…," Izlude began, frantically wondering whether to claim that he and Malak were in the midst of a friendly bout or claim they'd been at odds with each other over the fair Duchess Catherine. He'd also been wondering why the stone had been strangely reticent to aid him when he noticed that both Ramza and Malak were staring not at the Romandan knight who'd drawn steel against an Ivalician duke, but at the ground before him in absolute, slack-jawed shock.

His stomach tying itself into a leaden knot, Izlude looked down as well and saw, to his horror, the Holy Stone lying on the stone floor, the pale light of the full moon revealing it like a jewel in a fogbank. Running his hands down the side of his leggings, Izlude felt the blood drain out of his cheeks when he discovered a tear where his pocket used to be. He recalled that one blow that grazed his leg and realized that Malak must have slashed open his pocket.

Reading the intention written large on the netherseer's face, Izlude quickly charged for the Holy Stone, desperate to get it before Malak did. And, while the former assassin had the speed of a viper, Izlude had the advantage of being closer to the stone and having husbanded his strength during the duel. He managed to reach it first, kicking Malak away before scooping it up in his hand and holding it close, his sword angled to keep the other two men at bay.

Malak grimaced with pain as he was sent sprawling onto his back in front of Ramza. Alarmed, the Duke of Lionel quickly helped his friend stand before both of them found themselves staring at Izlude, silent demands for answers on their faces. When Izlude saw Ramza palming the hilt of his own sword, he realized that his peril was now vastly greater. He now faced two skilled warriors who had emerged victorious against the Lucavi. Izlude also knew that Ramza Beoulve was the only other man, aside from himself, who had lasted long enough to familiarize himself with Malak's fighting style.

More to the point, Ramza had soundly beaten Izlude once already, and had doubtless grown more powerful since while fighting his way through the worst of humankind and demonkind alike.

Without giving him a chance to explain, Malak brought up his blade, clearly ready to attack Izlude again. This time, he seemed both fully prepared and eager to kill him, doubtless out of fear that he was a disguised Lucavi demon just like his late father, Vormav Tingel. But, Ramza, who knew all too well what it was like to be judged and condemned without evidence of guilt or even a chance to plead his case, snatched the other duke's wrist and held him back.

"Wait, Malak! Still your sword!"

The netherseer started at him incredulously. "What?! Are you mad, Drake? You saw what that man just dropped! It's the missing Holy Stone you've been looking for! What if he's one of _them?!"_

"I understand your concerns, but we mustn't be so hasty! He could be someone who just happened to pick up the stone; we should at least give him a chance to explain himself. You don't want the blood of an innocent man on your hands, do you, Malak?"

As frightened as he was, for Lucavi he'd seen and which he'd only imagined yet haunted his nightmares, Malak knew Ramza was right. He didn't want to repeat the mistake he'd made during the war when he'd believed the false claims of his adoptive father and the Church of Glabados, saying that Ramza Beoulve posed a dire threat to all of Ivalice. Having not yet discovered the depths of Barrington's depravity against his sister, Malak had accepted this false claim without seeing any evidence of it for himself.

Forcing himself to calm down, Malak lowered his sword. "Very well, I'll trust your judgement, Drake," he said before turning to Izlude. "You will identify yourself to us, sir. And, don't bother with subterfuge. If your loss at our games of wits and words didn't convince me that you're not the real Damien Mitchell, your skill with the blade certainly did. One more lie, and we will be forced to eliminate you for the protection of this great country and her people."

Just moments before, Izlude Tingel would have done anything to protect his true identity. He had crafted a tale most elaborate and detailed of who Damien Mitchell was, and had even added both his own accomplishments to this young history and built a circle of friends who regarded him with affection and admiration. Knowing he could never be Izlude Tingel again – not publicly, at least – he had accepted that Damien Mitchell would be a second identity that he would have to live with while the name he'd been born to would likely be known only to himself and Alma. But, the revelation that he carried the Holy Stone changed everything, and he knew he now had no choice but to oblige the two men before him...

…assuming, of course, that he could do so.

Many a time he had pondered whether he would wear the face of Damien Mitchell until his second and final death, and he still had no answer. He had no idea how to bend the stone to his will, and genuinely feared for his soul if he tried. And, even if the stone could undo its alterations to his face and voice, Ramza had no reason to consider Izlude Tingel to be a friend. After all, by abducting Alma, he'd unwittingly gotten her neck deep into the Lucavi's machinations to enslave humanity…

…and, that was discounting Ramza's reaction when he found out what _else_ Izlude had gotten Alma into.

Still, if he could have his true face and true voice back, for but a few minutes, then maybe he could plead his case.

The rest would be in God's hands.

Tightening his hold on the stone, Izlude silently prayed that the illusion be dispelled, if only for a moment, so that Ramza and Malak could see the man behind the mask.

In answer to his plea, the Holy Stone once more became warm in his hand and glowed brilliantly. Izlude found himself blinking away stars for a moment, but his vision cleared in plenty of time for him to see that his prayer had been answered. He caught sight of his reflection in one of his gauntlets and, though distorted slightly, he could see his jet-black hair becoming its original chestnut brown while steel-gray eyes became green. He then slipped off the gauntlet to see the pale skin beneath taking on a bronzed tan until it was once more the sun kissed flesh of one accustomed to long hours of training and waging battle beneath cloudless skies.

Izlude regarded his tanned skin and the distorted reflection of his true face in the gauntlet as if both were dear friends he'd long thought dead…an analogy, he realized, which wasn't too far from the truth. And, his now green eyes misted as he soon learned that their reunion would be both temporary and brief.

The stone suddenly gave him a strong mental impression of his mother, reading to him and Meliadoul from a book of fairy tales when both were small enough to sit upon her knee. Her soft, loving voice imparted the quote _"At the stroke of twelve, the spell will_ _be broken. And, everything will be as it was before"._

Judging by the height of the moon, that was but minutes away.

As Izlude's appearance changed before Ramza and Malak's eyes, they were no less amazed.

"I don't believe it…" Ramza breathed, his voice hoarse with wonderment. "Izlude Tingel."

"Do my eyes deceive me, or is it the son of Vormav who now stands before me?" Malak asked as he stared wide-eyed at Izlude. Even though he now beheld Izlude's true form, he still had a hard time believing it.

"It is not an illusion," the knight blade said calmly, his true voice sounding strange and yet wonderful to his ear. "I am indeed Izlude Tingel, brought back from the dead by the power of the Holy Stone…just as you were, Lord Malak Galthana."

"But how?" Ramza asked. "Why did the stone choose you?"

Izlude shook his head. "I don't know. When I was at death's door, I heard a voice speak to me. It said 'Return to the ones with the right mind'."

Upon hearing Izlude's answer, both Ramza and Malak found themselves staring at the knight blade in disbelief. Especially Malak, for the stone which revived him had said those exact same words.

"Go on…" he said.

Relieved that the other two men were willing to listen instead of hacking him to pieces, Izlude did his best to explain. He told them of his sojourn in the realm of the deceased, encountering the phantoms of his mother and father, his being sent back to the realm of the living, of discovering the corpse of Damien Mitchell and swapping armor with the dead man, his following Ramza's band until nearly drowning at Fort Besselat, his learning of Alma's pseudonym, of how he'd found the Moonsharks' trove and saved the jobs of hundreds of honest folk while doing so, and ultimately his coming to Lesalia in search of Alma.

"You did all of that, came all the way here, for my sister?" Ramza asked, flabbergasted.

It simply sounded too good to be true. Alma had said she'd loved Izlude – so much so, in fact, that his memory left her unable to move on with her life – and that Izlude had given his life to save Alma's told him the feeling had been mutual. Still, the tale he'd heard boggled the mind…and offered him a heaven-sent lifeline from the most immediate of his predicaments. If the previously raven-haired man standing before him was indeed Izlude Tingel, returned from the dead, then all of his problems, at least those regarding Alma, would be solved.

He'd still need to make sure Delita did not stray back to the proverbial brink and find some way to help repair his friend's marriage, but at least one predicament might well be behind him.

The Beoulve girl, still grieving the death of her first love and the father of her unborn child, had seemed all but deaf to his pleas that she choose a husband quickly enough that her suitor might think the child to be his own handiwork, and Ramza had despaired that she'd soon be showing too much for the ruse to work. When she'd shown an interest in "Damien Mitchell", only to suddenly run away from him, it had felt like a cruel joke played by some divine prankster. But now, with Alma's lost love, with the real father of her unborn child, alive and newly returned, he finally had a way to ensure that his sister and unborn niece or nephew had a proper, loving family.

"Yes, Lord Drake…," Izlude answered, shaking Ramza from his reverie. "As I said, I know who you and your sister really are. And, every breath of my second life has been dedicated to winning her hand and giving her the life and marriage I promised her so long ago in Riovanes. You know I speak true, my lords, for you both have witnessed what miracles the Holy Stones can perform as well as their evils."

"I can't deny that…," Malak admitted, tapping at the silk which covered the bullet wound that had ended his first life. "The Holy Stone is the reason I was sent back to the realm of the living. When I realized how blind I'd been to Barrington's evil, my greatest desire at the time was to protect my twin sister, Rafa. But, there is one thing I wish to confirm: if you are standing before me now, then it must be the real Sir Damien who lies in your grave at the Great Templar Cemetery in Murond, correct?"

"I believe so," Izlude answered. "As I said, when I was revived, I switched armor and garb with the true Sir Damien. I knew the Lucavi who wore my father's face would seek my death again if he knew I was still amongst the living. I needed to both preserve the illusion of my death and a disguise so I could travel the land freely while I searched for Alma. I chose Sir Damien because he was about my size and his dog tag indicated that he had no family who might realize the truth…nor anyone to mourn him, aside from myself. It would not surprise me if he was buried in my place. Not that it matters now. Even if I can never again walk the streets and proudly declare myself a son of the Tingel family, I still wish to be with the woman I love."

Ramza released a sigh of relief. "This sounds almost too good to be true…"

"I'll say…," Malak agreed.

Glad that both Ramza and Malak believed him, Izlude continued. "Now that you know, please allow me to continue my search for Duchess Catherine. We had…some sort of misunderstanding at the ball, and I must try and make it right, lest I lose my chance to win her heart."

Izlude was about to leave when he heard Ramza call out to him once more. "Wait, Izlude, about that! There is something about Alma that I think you should know…"

The knight blade, struck by the urgency in Ramza's voice, paused as he regarded the red-headed duke curiously. "What is it?"

Ramza took a deep breath before answering. "My sister… she is with child…yours to be exact."

Had a dozen time mages all cast meteor spells on the very spot he now stood, Izlude could not have been more thunderstruck. As soon as he heard the words, barely able to gather in their full meaning, his eyes widened and he snatched at one of the crenellations, lest his legs buckle from the shock.

"A…are you sure?" he sputtered as his mind tried to dissect what he had just heard.

Although Izlude couldn't see it with his eyes, now brimming with fresh tears, he sensed Ramza's expression contorting with exasperation.

"Yes, of course I'm sure!" he blurted, a bit childishly. "Why would I lie?"

Izlude's breath caught in his throat and the moisture blurred world seemed to tip and tilt before his eyes. All of the sudden, the portrait he'd purchased at Claudio's shop sprang to mind, the image hitting him with such mental force that his head snapped back from the blow.

He remembered how her hair had seemed longer and lusher, her skin rosier, and her cheeks, breasts, and stomach…fuller. At the time, he'd thought it part of concerted effort to disguise herself, but now, seen in a different light, the realization was overwhelming. It bathed him in the warmth of ecstasy, which sizzled with the crackle of wonderment, while globes of anticipation drifted on breezes of hope only to burst into cascades of happiness that rained down upon him like falling stars.

As he would later put it, befuddling all within earshot as he did so, it was like being struck by a thundaja spell…but, in a good way.

It was, he was quite certain, the happiest moment since the dawn of creation.

Uncertain whether to laugh or cry, and somehow ending up doing both at once, he had to clap a hand over his mouth to keep from crying in delight.

 _"I don't believe this!"_ he gasped almost to himself, giddiness threatening to overwhelm his reserve. _"Alma is with child! I'm going to be a father!"_

It was then he realized that the feeling he'd had, of being kicked through his armor when he danced with Alma, wasn't a figment of his imagination. It was…

Their child.

"You seriously didn't notice?" Malak spoke up, startling both men. "You had to have seen that Alma's new hair wasn't the only thing different about her. What, did you think she was just getting fat? I can understand you thinking that about Agrias while you were shadowing us, but-"

"Don't!" Ramza blurted out, sounding almost terrified. "She _still_ throws things if you mention that!"

"Well, sort of…," Izlude admitted, and promptly swore both men to secrecy. "I had the stone's power to change my appearance, and even my voice, but Alma had to make do with less. When I saw how different she looked, I thought she was doing what she could to disguise herself. Red dye to change her hair color, rubbing oils into her scalp to make her hair longer and lusher, makeup to give her a rosier complexion, and eating more often to get a fuller figure. With how you must be used to traveling in disguise during and after the war, I figured that was one of your clever plans."

"Clever? Me?" Ramza blurted, pointing to himself in disbelief.

"Him?" Malak said, pointing to the duke with his thumb and sounding similarly bewildered.

"Actually, that's a good point," Izlude replied teasingly.

"Hey!" the Duke of Lionel shouted, his petulant tone of voice betraying just how young he truly was.

Despite the levity of their words, all three men soon sobered as they recalled just what had brought on the hilarity. Alma was with child. Izlude's child.

And, though getting her with child before they had wed, and with her believing him dead, was still more that he had to make up to her, this only spurred him to rise to the challenge. He would be the man, and the husband, that Alma believed he could be when she had shared with him the secret of the Lucavi and accepted his ring.

And, he would be the father his child needed as well.

"I… I don't know what to say!" he admitted "My mind is so awhirl I can barely think. What should I do now?"

"Well, for starters, I think it's better if you wait until tomorrow to see my sister again," Ramza answered, hoping that his infamous luck might hold just once more. "But, I also think it best that you do not reveal yourself to her right away. The shock might cause her to miscarry, if you know what I mean."

Izlude's eyebrows shot clear into his hairline while, inwardly, realization rang through his skull like the report of one of Mustadio's infamous guns. Could that have been the true cause of the stone's odd behavior? Had it somehow gleaned the true reason for Alma's new appearance, anticipated that Malak and Ramza would follow him, and then turned Izlude in circles so they'd catch up to him so he could learn this secret?

Has the stone not only deduced that Alma was with child, but then staged all this to prevent Izlude from losing his child by unwittingly causing Alma to miscarry?

Though it certainly seemed plausible, and he'd seen the stone perform greater feats for both weal and woe, the knight blade could only shake his head in amazement.

He wasn't too surprised, however, when the Holy Stone suddenly gave him a strong mental impression of Meliadoul, smiling her flirtatious swashbuckler's smile, and coyly reminding him that he ought to have more faith in those who look out for him.

"Then, what _should_ I do?" Izlude asked as he dried his eyes and faced the two men once more.

Interestingly, the question seemed to befuddle them. After exchanging blank stares, both turned to face Izlude once more, obvious uncertainty crossing their features.

"Well, don't look at me," Ramza said, boyish nervousness seeping into his tone. "Agrias and I are very happy together, but my "courtship" of her was wrong-headed from the start."

"I can believe it," Izlude opined, and then hastily added "You being happy together, I mean. Rachel is a beautiful child. Malak, I don't suppose you have any suggestions?"

"Well, for starters, I recommend you do what you did when you two first met at Riovanes. Let her get to know you…again," Malak advised. "In short, you would have to get the duchess accept you as you are now before you can tell her the truth. And, when the time is right, maybe the stone will let her see your real face."

As he said this, the netherseer felt a bit strange for attempting to give someone else love advice when his own experience in the field was a bit lacking. But, since he was indebted to Ramza for saving him and Rafa, Malak felt obligated to repay this debt of honor by doing what he could to bring Izlude and Alma back together.

"I see…," Izlude said, his elation wavering a bit at the knowledge that his reunion with Alma would see yet another delay. "I was about to continue my search for Alma. But, if you think it best to wait until tomorrow night, I shall take your advice and do my best to be patient."

"Good, and… well, I can understand if you're frustrated after what we had to tell you," Ramza said. "I know what it's like, being worried about someone you love but not being able to do anything about it for the moment. However, I think you won't have much longer to wait. I watched you and Alma this evening, and it looks like you two at least got off to a good start. I can tell my sister has taken an interest in you, and that you're growing on Manon and Charlotte too. So, I'll let her know that you will return tomorrow. For now, it's best to leave her be. Give her some time to gather her wits, be there for her tomorrow, and don't let on that you know the real reason she ran off. Do what we suggest, and I think you'll be fine."

Although disappointed that he could not see Alma again tonight, Izlude had to agree. "Very well. I shall return tomorrow then," he said, more determined than resigned. "There is one thing I must know, however. I know you and King Delita are old friends, and that he went to a lot of trouble to arrange the balls. Is he…aware of the situation?"

"He is, and so is Queen Ovelia."

That certainly went a long way towards explaining why Delita had invested so much time and money into these balls. However, and not for the first time, the knight blade found himself pondering the new king's motives. Though Ramza still seemed to regard Delita as a friend in spite of all the reprehensible things he'd done, not the least of which being how he was party to the tarring of Ramza's name, Izlude could not help but wonder if more than reciprocated feelings might be at work. Delita was a cunning and manipulative man, and had been charged by the Church to help bring down the old order of Ivalice because he could work his way into the good graces of many an unsuspecting person before slipping the knife between their ribs.

It was doubtful that he was keen to betray Ramza, since passing him off as a cousin and naming him Duke of Lionel might cause any suspicions from the Church to reflect badly on Delita as well. However, it was quite likely that the Duke of Lionel was aware of many of the new king's less-than-angelic deeds, perhaps enough that he could topple Delita's young reign. Though it seemed doubtful that Ramza would do so, if not out of faith in his friend then out of obligation to see that Ivalice was not split in twain over the throne again, perhaps the new king wasn't taking any chances.

Ramza was already deep in Delita's debt for his new name, his new home, and his new title. Add in seeing that Alma found a husband and was not stigmatized as an unwed mother, and the leverage with which the new king could secure Ramza's silence seemed quite complete.

That was possible; in fact, Izlude dared say it was likely. But, his love and their child came first regardless.

"Will you please let the king know about me?" Izlude asked. "As much as you think it's wise to tell him, anyway, so that he does not bar me from entering like the other suitors who were turned away earlier this evening?"

"I will…," Ramza replied, steely determination fortifying his words. "I promise."

"Thank you, my lord. You have my gratitude."

Ramza shook his head as he offered the knight blade his hand.

"No, Sir Izlude," the Duke of Lionel intoned, his words warbling as though he struggled to keep his composure. "You have mine. More than you can ever imagine."

For a moment, Izlude looked at Ramza in confusion. Izlude had tried to kill Ramza in Orbonne and had abducted Alma, unwittingly spiriting her into the claws of the Lucavi. And, on top of all that, he had slept with her before their promised marriage and gotten her with child. Ramza was surely aware of all this, and yet there was no reproach in his eyes nor any threats of violence for Izlude having allowed passion to overcome propriety. Granted, Ramza had little cause to talk since he'd gotten Agrias pregnant well before they'd wed, but the knight blade knew there was more to it than that and, soon enough, understanding dawned on him.

More than wanting his sister to be with the man she loved and the real father of her unborn child, Ramza had _forgiven_ Izlude, just as surely as he'd forgiven Malak and Meliadoul, and perhaps even Delita, for how they had wronged him in the past.

Smiling, he accepted the disguised Beoulve's proffered hand.

"Likewise," he said. "Thank you. And, not just for that, but also for saving Meliadoul's life when she tried to take yours."

Ramza blushed a bit, both at the praise and the reminder, and then blushed considerably more deeply when Izlude pulled him into a rough hug. As the two men drew apart, Izlude spied his tanned hand turning pale once more and, realizing what was to come, gazed into his gauntlet again, savoring the reflection of the man behind the mask as the bells tolled midnight and the illusion returned.

It was quite likely, Izlude realized, that this would be the last time he'd see his real face.

Now, that likelihood cut deeper than it ever had before as the face of Damien Mitchell was reassembled piece by piece before his very eyes.

"Well, at least nothing's turned into a pumpkin," he choked out, trying valiantly to inject some levity into the somber moment.

"What?" Ramza asked, perplexed.

"Nothing important," Izlude said hurriedly.

"Now, in regards to the Holy Stone…," Malak spoke up after clearing his throat to catch Ramza and Izlude's attention.

"Oh, yeah, I forgot about that…" the knight blade said as he opened his other hand to reveal the glowing stone.

"What shall we do about that?" Malak asked Ramza before returning his gaze to the object which had haunted the Duke of Lionel's nightmares for months before his arrival in Lesalia.

Ramza sighed as he opened his own hand and held it out to the knight blade.

"Izlude… I really hate to have to ask, but would you be willing to give me the Holy Stone you possess? I know it brought you back from the dead, as well as guided you to Lesalia, but it is also far too dangerous for any human to possess. As one of those who vanquished the Lucavi, it is now my duty to safeguard the Holy Stones. I'm not saying that I think it will corrupt you, but I would very much prefer not to take any chances."

As he said this, Ramza gave Izlude a pleading look. This wasn't like the time they had fought in the library of Orbonne Monastery, when they had stood on opposite sides of the battlefield, each demanding the other relinquish his Holy Stone. This time, Ramza was actually _begging_ for Izlude to give him his stone voluntarily for he did not wish to fight him a second time and take it by force.

Especially since he now knew that the other man was his sister's beloved as well as the father of her child, his own niece or nephew.

Izlude, on the other hand, hesitated to hand over his Holy Stone. One reason being that it had helped him to maintain his disguise and protected him from danger, as well as brought him to Lesalia safely. Would he be able to complete his long journey, or even maintain his disguise, without it? But at the same time, he also wanted Ramza and Malak to trust him.

Despite his self-deprecating nature, Izlude knew Ramza to be a clever man. He'd had to be in order to survive pursuit by church, state, and demonkind alike. Therefore, it stood to reason that the Duke of Lionel had a way to protect the Holy Stones from those who could be corrupted by their demonic influence. And, since Izlude had no inkling of just what power had disguised his face and voice, he had no proof that handing over the stone would unmask him. And so, hoping that his decision was the right one, Izlude dropped the shining stone into the Duke of Lionel's open palm.

As soon as the stone touched Ramza's skin, it suddenly glowed so brightly that all three men had to cover their eyes. An instant later, the young duke gasped in pain and was forced to drop it.

Alarmed, Malak asked: "What's wrong, my lord?"

"The stone!" Ramza gasped, examining his hand to find the skin had taken on a deep red tinge. "I couldn't touch it! It was so hot!"

"What do you mean? It felt just fine when I was holding it," Izlude asked, puzzled as he picked up the stone.

The moment his hand drew near, the furious glow winked out and it rested inoffensively in his palm, as cool as the common crystal that it resembled.

"Here, try giving it to me instead" Malak suggested as he opened his own hand and held it out to Izlude.

The knight blade was puzzled at the other duke's request, but obeyed. Unfortunately, he fared no better than Ramza for the stone once more glowed furiously, forcing Malak to drop it. So hotly it burned that the flesh of his hand blistered under the heat.

"Ouch!" Malak gasped as he massaged his palm with his other hand.

"What can this possibly mean?" Ramza demanded.

"I don't really know, but I think it means that the stone itself is not yet ready to change ownership," Izlude answered dryly as he once more picked up the Holy Stone.

Unlike with Ramza and Malak, he suffered no ill effects and the stone felt only mildly cool in his hand.

"My lords, I don't know why the stone does what it does," he continued. "And, believe me, I've been banging my head against the wall for quite a while trying it figure it out. But, I believe it wishes to stay with me for at least a bit longer. I would give it to either of you if I could. But fear not, you can trust me to safeguard it as I have done from the moment it revived me. I have not let it out of my sight, nor shall I ever."

"I suppose we have no choice…," Ramza said grimly. Although Izlude was willing to give him the stone, there was nothing the knight blade could do if the stone itself was not yet willing to accept Ramza as its new owner. "Very well, Izlude. I'll trust you with it. Just as I trust you with my sister. Please don't disappoint me."

"I won't…," Izlude assured him as he pocketed the stone and sheathed his blade. "You have my word. I must leave you both for now, my lords. Hopefully, we shall meet again tomorrow night."

"Yes… we'll meet again. Until then, have a good night," Malak said as he sheathed his own sword at last, relieved that he was finally sure that the mysterious raven-haired knight meant the Duchess of Lionel no harm.

"Goodnight…and thank you, both of you, for believing in me."

"You're welcome, Izlude," Ramza said. "Good night."

With that, the three men parted company, with Ramza and Malak returning to their respective guest rooms and Izlude to the inn, each gently deflecting probing questions all the while.

Tonight had been a night of jarring discoveries and, whether from shock or wonderment or hope or trepidation, all three men would find that sleep proved quite elusive tonight.

* * *

As it happened, Izlude, Ramza, and Malak were not the only ones who doubted they'd find much rest that evening.

In the opulent guest room of Lesalia Castle into which she'd fled after the ball, Alma sat before her vanity, regarding her reflection in morose silence. She had managed to return to her room without incident after fleeing from Sir Damien, though the memory of his heartfelt pleas for her to wait and the strange yet palpable desperation in his voice had stung worse than she would've believed possible.

Had he been so taken by her that the abrupt exit had done more than merely bruise a young man's ego?

She hadn't given much thought to how her reticence might've done likewise to her other would-be suitors, for the only thought that had crossed her mind while with them was how none could fill the void Izlude had left in her heart.

Yet, with Sir Damien, who had been so eerily reminiscent of her lost love, it had been different. Why this had been, she still was not sure. But, in another eerie correlation to what she'd felt with Izlude, there'd been something she could not define. It might've been the simple curiosity that arose when faced with a handsome stranger, or the girlish thrill at meeting a charming man.

Or, maybe it was the faint and irrational, and yet irresistible, spark of hope that the key to regaining her happiness was a blind, foolish gamble, much akin to that she'd taken in trying to seduce Izlude to gain her freedom…and ended gaining his love as well.

She supposed it hardly mattered. He'd sounded genuinely hurt by her abrupt exit, and likely wouldn't be keen to continue courting her after such a display.

Manon and Charlotte had been quick to chase after her, alarmed at what had happened and, in Manon's case, eager to challenge whomever was responsible to knightly combat.

When he'd gotten his answer, however, his zeal became despondence. Apparently, while Alma had been nearly blinded by her grief, Manon and Charlotte had grown to like Sir Damien, and both seemed genuinely sad that he'd likely not be joining their strange family.

For Alma, who'd come to care for Manon and Charlotte as though they were her own, the sad dejection on their faces had stung worse than a whole phalanx of Lesalian gossips spinning ever more incendiary yarns about her actions.

Her eyes misting, she lowered her head onto the vanity and allowed the burgeoning tears free rein. Not just for how she felt she'd failed the two children who were very nearly her unborn child's step-siblings, but for how much she missed Izlude and how she regretted pushing away the only man who'd likely be able to fill the void he'd left in her heart.

As though sensing her despair, the baby stirred, jolting Alma from her weeping.

"It's alright," she said, gently patting her now sizable belly and hoping her words sounded more convincing than they felt. "I'll find a way to make this right. I will. I must."

Before she could give much thought to just how she'd accomplish that daunting task, she heard a knock at the door.

"Catherine, are you awake?" a familiar voice rang out. "It's me, Ovelia."

Alma, who had managed to change into her nightgown after pulling all the pins out of her hair and undoing her braids before sadness overtook her, regarded the bed for a moment. Realizing she'd likely spend much of the night staring at the ceiling if she tried to turn in now, she decided that the arrival of her best friend offered a better way to while away the wee hours.

After donning a robe, which just barely concealed her pregnancy, Alma quietly opened the door to find the queen. The Duchess of Lionel had been rather perplexed that the queen would be awake at this hour, and her confusion only deepened when she saw that Ovelia was alone and, more curious still, disguised. At some point following the ball, Ovelia had exchanged the elaborate gowns which marked her as the queen for those of a castle maid, her long blonde tresses tightly coiled and nearly invisible beneath a white bonnet. The use of colored lenses over each eye and cosmetics to make herself look older, both of which Ovelia removed as she stood on the other side of the door while holding a single candle in her hand, furthered the illusion.

Alma herself might've been fooled if she hadn't used similar tricks back in Orbonne, when the two idly pondered whether such disguises might allow them a day of adventure beyond the monastery's lonely walls.

Still, that the queen felt the need to move about in disguise while under her own roof, and in the middle of the night, caused grim presentiments to form in Alma's head.

She already had an impression that unhappiness festered beneath the surface of Ovelia and Delita's marriage, and now she feared it might be worse than she thought.

"Ovelia? What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be in bed?" Alma whispered as she stepped aside and made a gesture for the disguised queen to enter. It was well past midnight and the ball had been over for two hours now. The Beoulve girl was sure that the guests must have returned to wherever they were staying for the night and the only ones awake were likely to be the guards working the night shift or the servants who were still cleaning up the now empty ballroom.

As soon as she was inside, Ovelia turned to her friend. "It's alright, Delita is already asleep and I had no difficulty getting past the servants and castle guards dressed like this."

"Still, don't you think it's a bit unsafe for you to wander the castle by yourself, even in disguise, Ovelia?" Alma asked in concern, but Ovelia shook her head.

"You worry too much, Alma. I may not be a warrior like Agrias, but that doesn't mean I'm utterly helpless either," the young queen said with a wink as she pulled up her skirt to reveal a concealed dagger, resting in a small sheath strapped to her thigh. Alma blinked at the familiar weapon, swearing that she had seen it somewhere before.

"Say, isn't that...?"

"Yes," Ovelia answered, as though reading Alma's mind. "Agrias gave it to me when we met briefly in Zeltennia, just before the war's end. She knew she couldn't leave Drake's party to protect me, especially not since she was still carrying Rachel back then. So, she gave me this in hopes that I could protect myself in the meantime. And, I've been carrying it on me almost everywhere since. It may be a simple weapon but somehow, I feel much safer having it."

Alma blinked. From what she remembered of the brief time she had traveled together with Ramza's band to Orbonne Monastery, Agrias had always carried that same dagger as a back-up weapon in case, God forbid, she was to ever lose her sword in the middle of a battle. Yet, after leaving the Graveyard of Airships, she'd noticed that the belt sheath where Agrias normally kept it had been conspicuously empty.

She might've asked about that, had she not noticed that the belt which Agrias wore now encircled a much thicker figure, which the holy knight would sometimes glower at and instruct to stop squirming so much.

"I see...," Alma said, suddenly worried that she saw entirely too well. "And, have you had to use it so far?"

"Fortunately, no," Ovelia replied, though her tone wavered. "I will admit, I've been through a great deal since I was abducted from Orbonne. It's been quite some time since I've felt truly safe, and I haven't been able to pass a good night's sleep without keeping the dagger at my bedside, in case any assassin manages to bypass the guards."

Alma raised an eyebrow. Somehow, she got the feeling that Ovelia did not keep Agrias' dagger near at all times simply because she feared a politically motivated assassination.

Perhaps, instead, she feared any assassination against her would come from much, much closer to home?

"I'm glad...," she said, then hastily added "That you've never needed to use it, I mean. So, what can I do for you, Ovelia?"

"Actually, I came to ask you if you're alright, since you left the ball so abruptly," the queen answered, obvious concern in her voice.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean to ask if that last suitor you danced with said or did something to offend you?"

"You mean that Romandan man, Damien Mitchell? No, of course not. I was fond him, but…"

Here, Alma paused, quickly cracking the door and glancing up and down the hall to make sure no one was within earshot before she continued.

"But, I panicked when my baby kicked," she continued, whispering. "When he asked what had happened, I was afraid he might realize I was pregnant."

"Oh...," Ovelia said, her expression becoming one of understanding. "He must be quite sensitive if he could feel your baby kick through his armor."

"Yes... when he asked what it was, I didn't know how to answer and couldn't risk him finding out the truth. So, the only thing I could think of was to leave."

"That's understandable, and I hope you'll forgive me for saying so but it's not very becoming to just walk out on someone seeking your hand, especially if he's someone you've taken an interest in," Ovelia pointed out.

Alma was startled. "I don't know what you mean, Ovelia."

The queen placed a hand on her friend's shoulder and gave her a playful grin.

"Don't you, Alma?" she asked coyly. "I can tell you like Sir Damien; he's the only one you've managed to look in the eye for more than five seconds, and I don't think it's just because of his exotic looks."

Alma blushed. "Well, that's because I thought he looked like my dead fiancé."

Seeing Ovelia's raised eyebrow, Alma went on.

"I'm not sure how to put it into words," she admitted. "But, he seemed so hauntingly similar to Izlude. His build and form, his posture and the way he carried himself. And, that smile! I could swear I was back in Riovanes Castle again, with him."

"Oh... was that all?" Ovelia asked, almost smugly. "Didn't you find Sir Damien himself the least bit intriguing?"

"I'd be lying if I said no," the Beoulve girl confessed. "Not long before you arrived, I was mulling over how I'd felt about him. And, it's not just how much he reminded me of Izlude. It's almost as though I felt how I did back then. Almost as though all that stood between me and happiness was the willingness to take a gamble."

Here, the Beoulve girl paused and heaved a melancholy sigh.

"What really struck me, though, was how…how hurt he seemed when I ran out on him," she went on. "I know most of these suitors want me for my looks, or my money, or for the prestige of marrying their way into the nobility. But, it seemed like Sir Damien was genuinely pained by what I did. That…I don't believe that happens to someone who would've come here as a social climber."

Again, Alma paused, her eyes misting once more. And, when she did continue, her words quavered.

"What you said earlier, about how my father found love again after losing his first wife? I can't help but wonder if I had that same chance and let it slip away. And, it's not just that either. Manon and Charlotte were here earlier, worried about what had happened. Manon was even keen to grab a sword from the armory and run through whoever had upset me. I told them the truth, since they already know about the baby, but I think I shouldn't have. It seems they'd already connected with Sir Damien, that they'd grown to like him. After I told them, they seemed so…so dejected."

The reminder of those young faces, marred by disappointment after she'd vowed to do everything she could to make them happy, caused salty rivulets to trace their way down her cheeks, and Alma had to wipe them away before she continued.

"I suppose it hardly matters, though. I doubt he'll be wanting to see me again after what happened."

Ovelia had listened to her friend's explanation quietly and, though the shifts in her expression were small, Alma could see them quite clearly. Was that a flicker of empathy, or envy, that she'd spotted? And, did it tie back to her grim presentiments about the state of the queen's marriage?

"Well, I would not despair if I were you," her old friend advised. "I can believe that he was hurt by what happened. But, from what I saw and heard, Sir Damien did try to find you after you left. He couldn't keep up with you, however, and had to cut short his search and return to wherever he's staying in town. But, I do know that he won't give up so easily. Before he left, he relayed a request that he be allowed to return tomorrow night."

"Are you serious?" Alma asked, unable to hide either her amazement or the shiver of hope that shot up her spine.

"I heard it from Drake's own mouth, and Delita has given his consent. So, he will be back tomorrow, and I really think you should give him another chance. Please, don't let this opportunity for happiness pass you by, Alma. You may not be so fortunate a third time and it won't be long before everyone can tell you're with child."

Alma was silent for a moment before she realized Ovelia was right. Her own happiness aside, she also had her baby to consider. If she was right, if Sir Damien did represent a second chance at love and was coming to care for Manon and Charlotte much like Alma herself did, then perhaps he did deserve a second chance.

Perhaps it was what Izlude would've wanted, had he foreseen that he wouldn't live to wed Alma or see their child.

"You're right, Ovelia. If he returns tomorrow, I will meet with Sir Damien again."

Ovelia smiled. "I'm glad. In a world like this, true happiness is hard to find and harder still to hold on to. I'd hate to see you let it pass you by. I should go now before Delita notices I'm gone."

The Beoulve girl raised a brow. "What? You mean Delita doesn't know you're here?"

"No, he was already asleep when I decided to see you and I saw no reason to wake him. Even married couples need time to themselves every now and then."

"I understand, Ovelia," Alma replied, and she feared she understood all too well.

Ovelia's earlier claims that she was "content" in her marriage to Delita had seemed, at best, hesitant and half-hearted. And now, Ovelia was skulking about her own castle, armed and in disguise, without her husband's knowledge. Then, there was the somberly worded, but non-committal, reply to the note which Alma had written her in the ancient pictographic language of the lost desert empires which they'd learned about in the monastery.

 _"He made us all pay,"_ had been the oblique, but less-than-encouraging reply to Alma's missive.

Did Ovelia simply want the space that married couples sometimes craved? Or, did she want the sort of distance she would wish to keep from one who she feared meant her harm…or whom she feared she might harm despite wishing otherwise?

If Ovelia's earlier evasiveness was any indication, asking her directly would be pointless. At least, for the moment. Still, the Beoulve girl could see that the queen was far from "content", and that two people so dear to her heart were so unhappy in what she knew could be a joyous marriage.

She yet had faith that Ovelia loved Delita, and that Delita loved her in return…

…yet, if things were left to continue their current course, that might not be enough.

For how can love endure when trust becomes fear? How can a marriage thrive when faith between spouses becomes tainted with suspicion?

Still, loathe though she was to admit it, the Beoulve girl could not help her old friend. Not when making sure her baby had a father, before everyone knew the truth, was her foremost concern.

"Thank you for coming, Ovelia," she said, reluctant though she was to let it go at that. "Please be careful going back to your room; I'd hate to see you get caught up in an awkward situation should any of the guards or servants recognize you."

"You're welcome, Alma," Ovelia replied, taking care to whisper her old friend's true name as she reassembled her disguise. "And, don't worry about me. I'll be fine."

The queen then gave her friend a sisterly kiss on the cheek, which Alma returned.

"Goodnight, Alma," the queen said, almost sadly. "Rest well."

"You too, Ovelia," the Duchess of Lionel replied. "Sweet dreams."

Alas, both women parted knowing that a good night's sleep was unlikely. And that pleasant dreams would prove more elusive still.

* * *

Though born into a noble family of considerable wealth and prestige, Meliadoul Tingel was set apart from her fellow highborn ladies in many, many ways…

…not all of which she considered pleasant.

Meliadoul arched and massaged her sore back as soon as she entered the Lesalia Castle Stables and dismounted Boco. After being in the saddle for the last two hours, her muscles ached and she was genuinely certain that she'd kill for a hot bath, as well as some rest, before getting dressed for the ball. Opening the saddlebag which contained her finery, and relieved that Boco's steady trot had kept it safe and unrumpled, she could not help a hint of displeasure at how this humble (to put it politely) journey contrasted with those of years gone by.

Once, in her youth when she accompanied her father to the castle to meet with the king in the name of the High Confessor, it had been in a spacious carriage with lavish adornments and well upholstered seats, pulled by a quartet of well-groomed chocobos and manned by a coachman, footman, and valet, all of whom performed their duties impeccably. Now, by contrast, Meliadoul took only a single mount, came alone, and carried her finery in a saddlebag.

Though her reasons were different, however, she was hardly alone in such a less-than-voluntary display of modesty.

Many of the nobles had practically bankrupted themselves financing the war, and were desperate enough to stave off destitution that they'd sworn fealty to a peasant-born king and sat across the negotiating table with commoners in order to find a way to ensure Ivalice's survival. By contrast, Meliadoul, sole survivor of the Tingel family, was quite wealthy. However, all of her family's servants, with the exception of Donovan, had long since left the service of the Tingel family after suffering the undeserved wrath of the demon who had possessed her father.

Although she could've hired more servants, this had been the last thing on her mind after learning that her father's very soul had been evicted by a demon, which had subsequently killed her brother.

Surviving the war had not been part of the hastily drawn, and rather nihilistic, plan, and she'd even sought death at her own hand when the Lucavi hadn't proven equal to the task of killing her. And then, much to her astonishment, the gun-slinging machinist, Mustadio, had stopped her.

Then, as if that wasn't enough, he'd tracked her down at her now empty estate, determined to help her move on with her life…in his own clumsy way.

The recollection of how he'd insisted on cooking her a meal, and somehow gotten a fair portion of it on the ceiling, teased a chuckle from her lips.

Still, despite his fumbling, there was no mistaking his sincerity…or that puppy dog expression when he'd asked her to accompany him to the ball after winning their impromptu target shooting contest.

Granted, the divine knight had attracted more than enough male attention to know when someone was vying for her affections and, still being a young man despite all he'd been through in his tumultuous life, Mustadio's interest could certainly be considered a crush on an attractive, older woman.

Yet, as she patted at the tynar rouge which he'd hastily re-gifted for her, all on the off-chance it might make her feel a bit better, she found a smile teasing at her lips. She even found herself thinking that, as embarrassing as it was to both be so soundly disproven in her assessment that his guns made his role in combat an easy one and for the gun's steep learning curve making her look as inept as a newly minted squire, that this was one wager she'd ultimately be glad to have lost.

For now, she had to pay up for losing their match. And, she also had to be sure that Boco, and Byblos who was concealing himself in the nearby woods, got back to Ramza. Both had served her well in tracking down and eliminating those lesser Lucavi who had fled once the Angel of Blood had been destroyed. But, with sightings of stray Ultima Demons and Apandas having dried up, she suspected that the chocobo wanted to return to his rightful master and the renegade demon be allowed to choose the next destination of his inscrutable journey.

It yet percolated at the back of her mind, the question of why Byblos had defected from the Lucavi to join Ramza's band in the deepest level of Midnight's Deep. And, since Byblos could apparently understand human speech but not speak it himself, she doubted that particular mystery would be solved anytime soon. Whatever the reason, and despite the nigh-overwhelming skepticism of his peers, Ramza had decided to give the renegade demon the chance to prove himself.

Meliadoul imagined he'd had to do the same fast talking when she and Malak joined as well.

Still, with a false charge of heresy hanging over his head, she didn't doubt that Ramza had had long, sad acquaintance with what it meant to be an outcast. And, as with quite a few of his seemingly idiotic decisions, his luck had held splendidly and Byblos had proven a great ally.

The why of it still eluded everyone, as did just what destination lay at the end of the journey Byblos had begun by deserting the Lucavi. But, after the help he'd given Meliadoul in hunting down the surviving minions of Altima, she decided she'd respect his right to choose just where to go next on his unknown sojourn.

He'd earned that much.

Upon hearing her entry into the royal stables, one of the stable boys approached Meliadoul and gave a bow.

"Good day, my lady. My name is Eric. May I see your invitation before taking your chocobo?" he asked politely.

"Of course," Meliadoul answered before pulling the card from her cloak.

As soon as he saw the name on Meliadoul's invitation, the boy's eyes widened.

"Goodness, my lady, are you the new Commander of the Knights Templar?" he blurted out, unable to hide his astonishment.

Meliadoul nodded. "Indeed I am. Or rather, what's left of them."

Although she did not elaborate further – and probably should not, as all of Ramza's band had vowed to keep the Lucavi's involvement a secret for the time being – the stable boy knew exactly what she meant…as much so as he could, at least. Though their role in triggering the War of the Lions in order to bring down the old order of Ivalice and replace it with a puppet monarchy dancing on the church's strings remained unknown to the people, it was no secret that, during the war, at least two-thirds of the order that had served the High Confessor of the Church of Glabados had been wiped out, with the majority having been either killed in battle or gone missing.

Among the missing and presumed dead was the previous Commander of the Templarte himself, Vormav Tingel. As for his son and second in command, Izlude, the young man was confirmed to have perished in the Riovanes Massacre and his remains had been buried at the Great Templar Cemetery in Murond.

Which left Vormav's only daughter, as well as only high-ranking Templar left in the order, as their new commander. But the position was hardly more than just a title now, since the newly ordained High Confessor Ryker had neither the wits nor the manipulativeness of his predecessor and would likely never command nearly as much influence in Ivalice as Marcel had before the War of the Lions.

Nonetheless, and out of respect for Meliadoul, who was also a grieving daughter and sister of two respectable knights, the stable boy refrained from agreeing or saying anything that might offend her or come off as unseemly to one in mourning.

"Regardless, I am honored to be of any service that I can offer you," he affirmed. "If I may ask, do you plan to stay overnight or go home after the ball? If you plan to stay, please let me know, so I can make sure your chocobo has enough feed to last until tomorrow."

"I plan to stay overnight, thank you," Meliadoul answered as she pulled down the hood of her green cloak and fished a fifty gil bill out of her purse to cover the boarding fee for her chocobo, as well as a twenty gil bill as tip for the stable boy.

Upon receiving the generous gratuity as well as the king's mandatory boarding fee, Eric's eyes brightened. Normally, he was lucky if he got five or even one gil as a tip, since most visitors to the castle were either stingy nobles who looked down on commoners like himself or nobles who saw the Lady of the Hour as a financial lifeline and could ill-afford large gratuities no matter how they felt about him.

"My lady, that's mighty generous of you!" he exclaimed, grinning uncontrollably.

Meliadoul smiled. "It's all right, you work hard so I think you deserve it."

Before the stable boy could respond, Meliadoul saw one of his fellows leading a chocobo to another stall. Oddly, she thought this particular mount looked familiar and before he could close the door, the divine knight called out to him.

"Excuse me," she said, causing the stable boy to jerk to a halt. "That chocobo..."

Turning to face her, the other stable boy said: "Yes, my lady? What about it?"

Curious, Meliadoul stepped closer until she saw the white-tear drop shaped pattern under the chocobo's right eye, which caused her own eyes to widen in recognition.

"Nelly? Is that you?" she asked, stupefied, as she gently placed her hand on the creature's head to pet it. Sure enough, the chocobo perked up both at her name and the familiar face, cooing happily. The stable boys, both of whom had earned a bruise or two trying to touch the feathered spitfire like that, looked on in astonishment.

"Wow, it looks like she's taken a liking to you pretty fast, my lady," Eric said, amazed. "Jeff and I have had quite a time with this hot-blooded creature. I am wondering one thing, though. How did you know her name?"

Instead of answering the question, Meliadoul gave one of her own. "Who does this chocobo belong to?"

"As I recall, she belongs to one of the men seeking the hand of the Duchess of Lionel," Nelly's handler, Jeff, answered. "His name is Damien Mitchell, a Favoham knight who was formally in the service of the late Duke Gerrith Barrington."

"Damien Mitchell? The name doesn't ring a bell. Where might I find this Sir Damien?" Meliadoul demanded, suspicion curdling in her gut.

"Well, you just missed him; he left his chocobo here and went into the castle a few minutes before you arrived, my lady. But, Sir Damien shouldn't be too hard to spot. He's clad in the armor of one of Favoham's Wyvern Knights and has the raven hair and gray eyes of the native Romandans. There was a story in the Times about some derring-do he did in Gollund, and it mentioned that his grandparents were Romandan immigrants."

"I see... well, I should be on my way then. I have a few questions for Sir Damien. If you will excuse me..."

Without waiting for either of the stable boys to respond, Meliadoul Tingel left the stables and made her way into the castle. The way the other chocobo reacted to her told the divine knight that it was indeed the same chocobo that she had gifted as a chick to her younger brother for his tenth birthday.

It was the custom amongst knightly families that those children who would grow up to bear swords and wear armor be tasked with raising their own mount in order to learn the diligence and responsibility that is as much a part of being a knight as chivalry and swordsmanship. Meliadoul had watched Nelly grow up just as she'd watched her younger brother grow as well, and tended to and ridden Nelly often herself to recognize her brother's mount with but a glance.

That Nelly was here, and in the possession of this Damien Mitchell, was most peculiar as, to her knowledge, Nelly did not allow anyone other than Izlude or Meliadoul herself to ride her.

Whoever this Damien Mitchell was, he had better be able to explain why he had Nelly in his possession. And, if Meliadoul did not like his answer, it would not go well for him…

* * *

"Lady Catherine, are you alright? You seem a bit uneasy tonight."

Rafa's point was underscored when she had to repeat herself, twice, to get Alma's attention. Jolted from her reverie, Alma turned to Rafa, who had approached to offer her a pastry from the buffet, obvious concern in her hazel eyes.

Though the former members of Ramza's band knew the importance of secrecy, it had been necessary to tell at least a few of them that Alma was with child. Rafa had been one such person, especially since she'd come to regard Alma as a friend since the final battle at the Graveyard of Airships.

The Duchess of Favoham, much like the Duchess of Lionel, was well acquainted with how it felt to lose those she loved, and for the anguish of captivity to follow on the heels of that pain. She knew also that a woman's heart could suffer its own unique wounds, which few men could decipher and fewer still could mend.

Perhaps, Rafa thought as Alma ate the pastry, as much to nourish her growing baby as herself, even if none of the men on this stage could take away that pain, they might blunt it and allow Alma to move on with her life.

Tonight was the third and final night of the ball. As with the first two nights, Alma had danced with those suitors who were permitted entry into the castle and ballroom. Due to the sheer number of men who had come to Lesalia to seek her hand, not to mention the ever-rising cost of these galas, each suitor was allowed only one dance with the duchess, and for only two or three minutes each.

Although Alma had done much better in not seeming so distant with her suitors, keeping eye contact and making polite conversation, she could not help her thoughts wandering to the raven-haired, gray-eyed knight she had met the prior evening. And, as bizarre as it would've sounded not twenty-four hours beforehand, the Beoulve girl actually found herself disappointed that he was nowhere in sight.

For a moment, Alma actually worried that, after a night mulling over her abrupt exit from their dance, perhaps Damien had reconsidered his promise to come back tonight.

Or, maybe he realized she was pregnant and now wanted nothing to do with her.

Hoping that wasn't the case, Alma quickly wiped her mouth and hands on her kerchief and nodded her thanks to Rafa, who had chosen to wear a light sky-blue gown with semi-transparent skirts that offered a tantalizing view of her shapely legs.

"I'm sorry, Lady Rafa," Alma said. "And, thank you for the pastry. It's just that I'm a little disappointed that I don't see Sir Damien Mitchell anywhere tonight."

"Do you mean that Romandan knight from yesterday?" Rafa asked, clear interest in her tone "From what I can see, he seemed to like you a lot, and I'm sure it would take more than a hasty exit to scare him away. Remember, he did ask Drake to relay his request that he be allowed to return tonight. You said so yourself."

"And, suppose he slept on it and then changed his mind when he woke up this morning?"

"Not likely. You might've been too busy to read about him in the Times, but I did. And, if he carved his way through a horde of undead bandits just so he could have the money for his ensemble, then I doubt such a man would give up so easily."

In truth, the Beoulve girl had read that story, if only to pass what otherwise might've been a night spent staring at the ceiling and/or crying into her pillow. At the time, when she'd been deep in the renewed throes of heartbreak, she'd bitterly wondered why Damien had lived through such a nigh-suicidal act of gallantry while Izlude had not. But, once she'd calmed herself, she'd discovered a twinge of admiration for the brave deed. Apparently, in wiping out the ghosts, he had also saved the jobs of hundreds of people, as well as the many thousands whose lives would benefit from the gems mined there being sold to finance the rebuilding of Ivalice.

Had Izlude lived, he might've been impressed. Maybe he would've even cracked a joke about having been beaten to the punch.

"I think he'll be back tonight, he might just be a little late," Rafa offered reassuringly. "After all, he was the last suitor to arrive and sign in yesterday. Or at least the last one King Delita permitted into the castle, since there were so many seeking your hand."

As she said this, the Duchess of Favoham's lips curved into a playful smile. This was something she had started to do a little more often after she had reconciled with her twin brother and when they were finally freed from their adoptive father's servitude upon his death.

The pain of those days, when the man she'd regarded as a father had shown his true colors and visited his depravity upon her behind closed doors, was still there. Maybe it always would be, but the days when she quailed at the sight of even the gentlest of men were behind her and the nightmares were growing fewer.

She was not "well", nor even "okay", but each day was taking her slowly but surely in the right direction.

"Do you really think so, Lady Rafa?" Alma asked, pointedly reminding the Duchess of Favoham that Alma's road to recovery had more steps before her than behind.

"Do not worry about that. If there's one thing I've learned about men, it is that they are not easily deterred when a woman captures their fancy. Or their heart for that matter," the other duchess assured with a teasing smile as she stole a quick glance over Alma's shoulder to see Malak dancing with Lavian, whom she knew he fancied since they met while traveling together in Ramza's party.

It had been quite some time since Rafa had seen her twin brother smile like that.

Reasons to smile had been rare for a street waif, picking through refuse and corpse piles for even a morsel of food. And, after the harsh training for a career as an assassin, and the harsher realities of that dark trade, cause to smile became rarer still.

And, that was discounting the deep self-recrimination her brother had fallen into over how his blind loyalty to the man who'd fished him out of the gutter had left Rafa alone and unprotected when Barrington had violated her behind Malak's back.

It had taken Lavian delivering a few kicks to Malak's backside, several of which quite literal, to get him to beg the forgiveness he felt he'd never deserve. By then, Lavian had also become good friends with Rafa, and the Duchess of Favoham looked forward to welcoming the Lionsguard knight into their family.

She was pointedly reminded of what might happen not long after when she caught sight of Manon and Charlotte.

The pair had been in the midst of a clumsy, but endearing, attempt to follow the waltzes around them. They'd only fallen down twice – a new personal best, according to Alma – and had adjourned to the buffet table. Manon seemed to be making an almost comical effort to keep well away from the wine being served while several people who'd gotten between Charlotte and the desserts had to leap out of her path.

Rafa had heard Alma clearly tell Charlotte to only have one slice of cake. So, when the young girl took three instead, Rafa could practically hear Alma's eyes rolling.

"What's it like?" the Duchess of Favoham asked, her tone distant but happy. "Being like a mother to those two?"

"I'd…be hesitant to call myself their mother," Alma said shyly. God knows I've made some terrible mistakes so far."

"What parent hasn't? Besides, I can see they think the world of you. So, what is it like?"

It took Alma some time to form the words to answer and, when she did, she might've been called rambling by some. Still, she spoke of how looking at Manon and Charlotte gave her a picture of what Izlude and she might've been if they'd met sooner or lived to have more children, of how her heart ached at the suffering which had so characterized their young lives, and how she was gladdened upon seeing that they were reclaiming the happy childhood they'd lost when whatever ill wind of fate had blown them toward the now defunct Lionel workhouses. Well before the Duchess of Lionel had stopped, blushing at how verbose and gushing she must've sounded, a very different sort of smile had begun to tug at the corners of Rafa's lips.

"Perhaps someday," she said, almost to herself.

Alma's eyebrows rose at those words. The Duchess of Favoham didn't notice, however, as her gaze had caught that of a member of the group which called itself "Balbanes' Cubs". This one, if Rafa remembered from what she'd overheard from his own ill-fated overture to Alma, had been a doctor who'd made his fortune by covertly providing medical aid to the ill during the war and then founding a thriving practice once the battlefields had fallen silent. Like the other Cubs, his actions, had they been discovered by either of the warring dukes, might've seen him sent to the gallows.

In addition to his obvious intellect and bravery, he was also quite handsome. And, upon noticing Rafa's interest, he signaled that it was mutual with a charming smile.

All those aware of Alma's pregnancy, and how she mourned the man who hadn't lived to even know of the life he'd sired, had urged her to move on with her life. And, perhaps it was time that Rafa did likewise.

But, not just yet.

Unbeknownst to Alma, Malak had secretly requested that Rafa keep watch over her. He'd been quite evasive about why, and Rafa was soon entertaining such dire presentiments as one of the suitors being corrupted by the Holy Stone which was yet missing from their hard-won collection, and there being a Lucavi demon lurking somewhere on the dance floor. Even such lesser crises, such as one of the suitors having ill designs upon Alma, had been enough that Rafa had begun adding a pair of Damascus steel daggers to her ensemble before her brother decided to be a bit more forthcoming…

…but, only a bit.

Malak was hiding something, that much Rafa was sure of. But, he had told her that he suspected that Sir Damien might be the prevailing suitor and that, if Rafa saw nothing untoward, she was to try and nudge them together. Despite seeing several signs that Malak knew more than he was saying, she'd agreed. And so, thanks to her twin brother, the Duchess of Favoham knew for a fact that Alma's mysterious suitor would return tonight. It was only a matter of when.

And, she was right.

No sooner did Alma finish a second pastry – given by way of apology from Charlotte, which Alma had been too hungry to refuse but which likely wouldn't save Charlotte from a talking-to later on – then the double doors to the ballroom opened again. And, in swept the mysterious Romandan knight who had managed to capture her fancy the night before. Like the previous evening, "Damien Mitchell" was dressed in his dark green cloak and elegant ceremonial armor with black leggings and knee-high black boots.

Unlike the previous evening, Izlude was about an hour late to the ball. The revelations the previous evening had caused him a sleepless night as he'd tried to corral his mingled excitement and terror at his imminent fatherhood and he had needed a bit more time to go over what he wanted to say to Alma and how he would present himself to her once they'd gotten more time alone together.

He'd forgotten half of what he'd planned to say, and wasn't sure if it had been his abbreviated sleep or the pounding in his heart which was responsible. But, with one indrawn breath, he began to make his way through the crowd to the woman of this dreams…and the mother of his unborn child.

Leaning closer to her friend, Rafa whispered into Alma's ear. "Psst, he's here, Alma. Turn around."

Alma gasped and hesitated for a moment before slowly turning around and seeing the handsome young man whom she had met and danced with just the night before. As soon as he was sure he had her attention, "Damien" gave a graceful and gentlemanly bow that looked incredibly, hauntingly, similar the one Izlude gave her whenever he came to her chambers at Riovanes Castle to join her for dinner.

Although bowing was a customary gesture which men made to women during formal events, this only furthered the nigh-phantasmal similarities between this young man and her first love, though Alma wasn't sure whether it was her imagination or not.

Seeing that the person who'd so ensnared her friend's interest had returned, as Malak had predicted, Rafa saw that as her cue to leave Alma to his care and attention.

"I'll leave you two alone for now. Have fun, Catherine!" Rafa said with a wink before quietly slipping away.

It seemed that the crowd had taken Sir Damien's reappearance as a sign that the matter of which gentleman would prove the prevailing suitor had been resolved, for only a few continued to watch the pair while some either began some perfunctory gossip about the couple's future and others, regarding this font of gossip as having run dry for the moment, turned their attention elsewhere.

In more than a few cases, "elsewhere" happened to be towards Rafa.

Just because the Duchess of Lionel had already found a suitor that captured her fancy did not mean the Duchess of Favoham was unavailable as well. And, those suitors who were wise enough to know that Duchess Seymour was now beyond their grasp but were not sent slinking off in tears by this setback, realized they yet had a second chance to win a lovely and wealthy bride.

In fact, as several took in Rafa's exotic features and the hint of shapely legs visible through her semi-transparent gown, they were keen to endear themselves to her.

Unlike her normal garb, Rafa had chosen not to wear a hijab and left her head uncovered, allowing her waist-length dark brown hair, typically coiled into an elaborate flower-shaped half-bun, to flow freely down her back in soft waves. Like her twin brother, the Duchess of Favoham's dusky skin, as well as her dark hair, also highlighted her bright hazel eyes.

The Cub she'd spotted earlier, who introduced himself as Tyler, seemed to appreciate this and was quick to request a dance.

After Rafa had left, Alma quickly dipped into a curtsey. Unlike her suitor, who had dressed exactly as he had the night before, the Duchess of Lionel chose to wear a dark ocean-blue dress with puffy shoulders while detachable sleeves fluttered about her slender arms. The black laces in the front and back had been drawn as tight as could be done without risk of harm to her precious burden, and even then, it might not be long before people started to wonder if more than her newfound affluence was working its will on her waistline.

Malak had told Izlude it would be best to let Alma get to know him again, but he also had to act quickly enough to save her reputation. And, though such a balancing act would be no small feat, he drew in a breath to calm his thundering heart and resolved to see the task done.

Glad that it didn't seem like she was going to run off again, Izlude smiled and took Alma's hand in his own before delicately pressing his lips against her slender fingers.

"My lady…," he began, as if meeting her for the first time…again. "May I have this dance?"

Alma blushed as she finally allowed herself to look her favorite suitor in the eyes, relieved that he had made good on his pledge to return tonight and did not seem the least bit offended that she ran out on him the night before, and in front of such an audience, no less. In fact, unless she was imagining it, the Beoulve girl thought her suitor looked even happier than he had when they'd first met, after she had seemingly chosen him over the other men who came to Lesalia seeking her hand.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spied Manon and Charlotte, the latter clearly having imbibed too many sugary confections. The two had positively lit up at seeing her and Damien together, a sight which warmed her heart every bit as much as her suitor's reappearance.

This time, she would not let them down.

Putting on her sweetest and most crooked smile, Alma accepted the hand Damien offered and allowed him to lead her to the ballroom dance floor.

Although relieved that her favorite suitor made no mention of their abrupt parting, Alma felt the need to apologize for it just the same.

"Um, Sir Damien, about yesterday…," she began.

Before she could say anything else, Damien merely smiled, and Alma once more felt that eerie correlation between this enigmatic knight and her dead fiancé.

"It's alright, Lady Catherine," he said, to her profound relief. "I was not offended. I understand if you were feeling unwell and had to leave. More importantly, how are you feeling tonight?"

"I…I am well," Alma answered, hoping her surprise might appear as no more than shyness as she allowed Damien to lead her through a slow waltz.

For a moment – or was it an hour? Alma could not tell either way – she drifted away from the ballroom. Gone were the other waltzing pairs, the smell of the decadent refreshments which permeated the air, the stifled cheers of Manon and Charlotte, the look of profound relief on the faces of Ramza and Malak, and the somewhat displeased looks the other suitors were leveling at Damien.

While many of them had already conceded defeat regarding the courtship of "Lady Catherine" and now set their eyes on Rafa, others still disliked the idea of someone who was last to arrive, as well as being of foreign stock, emerging as if from nowhere and capturing the attention of the Duchess of Lionel with seemingly no effort.

Not that any of that mattered, now that it was clear who the Duchess of Lionel had chosen, even if an official announcement had not yet taken place. There were still suitors who yet hoped the duchess would change her mind about this mysterious Romandan knight.

But, at this moment, not even the king could make himself known to the blissful pair.

Now that he was certain he had Alma's full attention, Izlude silently vowed to do everything he could to make sure he kept it. And, that meant taking Malak's advice and trying to persuade Alma to leave the ballroom, so that they could be alone and talk away from the prying eyes of the other guests.

"You're a wonderful dancer, Lady Catherine…," Izlude began. "If I may ask, would you be interested in taking a walk alone with me around the castle gardens?"

Snapping back to awareness, and sensing the stares of her other suitors, Alma eagerly nodded in agreement. "I would love to, Sir Damien. When would you like to go?"

Izlude smiled and made another bow, this time without letting go of her hand. "No time like the present, my lady."

No sooner did those words leave his mouth, Alma's eyes widened and she found herself staring at "Damien" in astonishment, a small gasp escaping her lips. Her favorite suitor noticed right away, perplexity and concern beginning to creep across his handsome face.

"Is there a problem, my lady?" he asked, sounding worried.

For a moment, Alma was at a complete loss for words. It was true, there had been a number of eerie correlations between "Damien" and Izlude, but this one had sent a jolt up her spine and caused her heart to skip a beat. Izlude had spoken those same words, _those very same words_ , when he'd asked her to join him for a walk around the Riovanes Castle gardens.

And, even though this Damien's accent meant that he sounded nothing like her lost love, the manner in which he spoke – the tone and inflection and the sly smile that dovetailed the words – were impossibly similar.

Very nearly dumbstruck, but not wanting to offend her handsome, raven-haired suitor again, Alma shook her head.

"My apologies, Sir Damien," she said, somewhat breathlessly. "I would love to."

"Then, let's be on our way, Lady Catherine," Izlude said with a wink as he led the Duchess of Lionel out of the ballroom and away from the prying eyes of suitors and spectators.

* * *

The first lesson that a woman who chooses the path of a knight learns is that modesty is a quick casualty on the battlefield.

When Meliadoul Tingel, who'd managed a quick soak in one of the guest rooms, emerged from the tub in full view of the now blushing maids, they learned that lesson as well.

Striding with purposeful steps towards the nearest mirror, with nary a care for either her nakedness or the several pairs of eyes which were transfixed upon her, the divine knight quickly began to towel herself off as she considered her next move. Although she had originally intended to try and get some rest before getting dressed and ready, Meliadoul found herself unable to relax with her recent discovery of her late brother's chocobo in the castle's stables.

A veritable battalion of questions had begun marching through her mind as she pondered how it was possible for this Damien Mitchell to be in possession of Nelly and what she would do once she managed to find and confront him. When it became clear that a meditative soak would yield no answers as to how a stranger could tame her late brother's famously stubborn mount, she decided that she could only dress and seek him out.

After she was dry enough, the divine knight gestured, several times, for the maids to open the saddlebag which contained the dress and shoes she intended to wear to the ball along with some jewelry, perfume, and make-up. With a nervous squeak, and doing a remarkable job of dressing Meliadoul while eyeing the far corner of the room, the maids promptly began to bedeck her in the finery of the illustrious Tingel family.

Though she chaffed at the delay, and was eager to seek out Nelly's new owner, Meliadoul knew more than enough about court decorum to know that she still needed to mind her appearance since she was attending a royal ball in honor of the new Duke and Duchess of Lionel. Her adherence to decorum was situational, at best, but she was well aware that any impropriety might cost her invitation. Out of her usual gold-tone armor and green cloak, the divine knight was clad in a velvet scarlet gown with puffed sleeves and gold laces, her auburn hair put up in a braided bun secured with gold pins.

Mustadio had been quite eager to see her with her hair down after her bun had come undone during their little target shooting contest, but she'd had more than enough men cross her doorstep to know that a lady must never give a man _everything_ he asks for all at once…

…after all, where was the fun in _that?_

 _Besides_ , she mused to herself, fighting down a blush, _when it's a man you might want to keep, it pays to keep him interested._

Satisfied with her appearance, Meliadoul quickly beckoned for her shoes to be brought forth. One of the maids, who'd been quite jittery watching Meliadoul stride across the room stark naked and with nary a care for her small audience, now seemed mildly terrified as she bore what appeared to be a pair of slippers made from glass.

But, as was the true lesson of the War of the Lions, appearances can be deceiving.

In truth, the "glass" slippers were made from the shell of an Adamantoise, a creature from the Ivalice of antiquity whose incredibly hard shell was prized as a material from which could be made a variety of weapons, armor, jewelry, and baubles, all of which were practically unbreakable and would last long enough to be inherited by the original owner's great-great grandchildren. If not longer.

The divine knight could certainly believe the part about them being unbreakable. She'd once tried wearing them, back when her feet were much too small to fit in them properly, and one ended up falling right off and clattering down the stairway. Though the shoe had survived the misadventure with nary a scratch, this hadn't spared Meliadoul from a rather memorable spanking.

Her eyes misted at the thought, for her mother's death and Vormav's soul being evicted by Hashmalum had occurred soon thereafter.

Shaking herself back to attention, she quickly probed at her braided bun to make sure the hairpins holding it together were secure and then applied the tynar rouge to her lips as she stepped into the Lesalia Castle ballroom. Not even bothering to wait for her name to be announced first, she strode inside, her eyes scanning the expansive hall in search of the mysterious Romandan knight that the stable boys had told her about just hours before.

Nearly ten minutes later, Meliadoul was disappointed when she could not find anyone matching his description. Meliadoul knew that none of the other Romadans in attendance could be this Damien Mitchell because all of them were clad in the native garb of their homeland and, with the exception of a boisterous boyar with a deafening laugh, all were significantly older than the man Nelly's handler had described.

Though she did not see the Romandan knight she originally sought, Meliadoul did, however, notice another young man who caught her attention...

…not terribly surprising, given his ensemble.

The young man wore an embroidered golden and olive vest over a high-collared shirt while tight black leather trousers, which looked so tight that Meliadoul wondered how he could even walk in them, vanished into high leather boots with golden buckles. Draped over his shoulders was a seaman's jacket festooned with gleaming copper buttons and trailing a pair of extravagant coattails.

 _Yeah, that's very hard to miss,_ Meliadoul thought to herself, unable to keep a snicker either from her musings or her lips.

The flamboyantly dressed man stood in the corner of the ballroom, taking a sip of from a wineglass while conversing with Rad Phillips, who wore the expression of one who was, mightily, suppressing the urge to burst into laughter. Though she could understand the sentiment, and shared it, the divine knight could not help but feel that the young man looked vaguely familiar to her.

Her curiosity piqued, and needing a balm for her frustration at "Sir Damien" having eluded her, Meliadoul decided to find out just who this young man was. At first, she thought it was Balthier, as his garb closely resembled that of the smooth-talking sky pirate who had accompanied Ramza's party for the last leg of their journey.

Certainly, the ensembles of both men called to mind the flying corsairs who'd pillaged and plundered amidst the clouds of Ivalice in ages past, and the youth's hairstyle was also quite similar to Balthier's as well. But, as she drew closer, she noticed that he appeared at least a decade younger than the self-proclaimed sky pirate.

While Balthier was in his late twenties to early thirties, this young man appeared to be just skidding off his teens. What's more, there was an obvious nervous energy at work as the wineglass wobbled in his hand, whereas Balthier's blithe confidence had boggled the mind. It took the divine knight a few moments before she finally recognized him.

"Mustadio? Is that you?" she blurted, unable to hide her astonishment.

As soon as he heard the divine knight call out for his friend, Rad, who was near to soiling himself, peered over Mustadio's shoulder and grinned upon recognizing Meliadoul.

"Hey, Musty, don't look but I do believe your crush is here!" he said teasingly.

"Really?! She's here?! Tell me, Rad, how do I look?" Mustadio asked frantically as his hands flew up to his head in an attempt to smooth out any hairs that might be out of place.

"You look great!" the ex-thief assured him, his punchy grin trembling with restrained hilarity. "With that flashy get-up, there's no way Lady Tingel wouldn't notice you. Now if you'll excuse me, I do believe Lady Alicia is expecting me on the dance floor…"

Without another word, Rad finally stepped back and slipped away into the crowd of dancers on the ballroom floor. It had been quite a relief when Rad showed clear signs that he had finally chosen which of the Murry twins to be with after his lengthy and questionable habit of flirting with them both, often simultaneously. And, though their rude games yet persisted, with the girls eager to get some action and urging Rad to go all-in, everyone had noticed Rad's eyes, and lips, lingering on Alicia more and more as time went on.

Alicia, indeed, was quite eager to dance with Rad…and to know why he'd burst into laughter for no obvious reason during the middle of their waltz.

While Rad was bewildering, and infuriating his own love interest, a suddenly breathless Mustadio was left alone with the divine knight who he had been obsessing over ever since they'd met on the opposite sides of the battlefield before she finally joined Ramza's party.

Taking a deep breath, the blond machinist finally forced himself to turn around to face the lady of his dreams.

And, he found himself unable to say a word.

Likewise, Meliadoul herself was just as stunned to see the scrappy blond boy looking every bit as dashing as the legendary sky pirates she used to read about in books describing an era where magic was commonplace and airships crowded out the heavens. With his boyish pony-tail gone and his hair slicked back, not to mention his flashy garb, it was no wonder Meliadoul mistook him for Balthier. In fact, if she didn't know better, the divine knight could have sworn the two men looked similar enough to be related.

When he finally remembered himself, Mustadio belatedly, and nervously, gave a gentlemanly bow before Meliadoul. Despite not being a noble, the blond machinist was lucky enough to have received some helpful hints in ballroom etiquette from Ramza himself upon his arrival in Lesalia.

Mustadio remembered, in particular, how Ramza had agreed to help with nary a second thought, and despite clearly having more important things on his mind. The machinist also remembered, very clearly, that Ramza was a great friend…

…hopefully, he could remember the actual lessons just as well.

"My lady!" he entreated, a bit shrilly and while tugging at his suddenly tight collar. "Will you honor me with the pleasure of a dance?"

Amused by the youth's shy attempt at imitating Balthier's suave mannerisms, which she also found cute, Meliadoul smiled and accepted Mustadio's proffered hand.

"I would love to, Master Bununza," she answered politely, speaking in the sweetest tone she could muster.

With wry amusement, she noted how she'd sounded like a schoolgirl who'd caught the eye of the handsomest boy on campus, which would've been quite uncharacteristic of her under normal circumstances.

But, then again, when was the last time that the divine knight's circumstances could be called "ordinary"?

Not for quite some time, she had to admit. Still, while Meliadoul Tingel was not the type of woman who was easily charmed or impressed, she had to admit, at least to herself, that the blond youth had done a fine job of both as she allowed him to lead her to the ballroom floor.

Looking at Mustadio now, it was hard for the divine knight to believe he was the same scrappy machinist who, despite being able to stare down Lucavi demons without flinching and who could put a bullet through a man's forehead at one hundred paces, used to stutter around any attractive woman he met, including herself. It was still evident that Mustadio was quite nervous and shy around her, and that his newfound garb and mannerisms were attempts to both make himself seem bolder and more confident, as well as more dashing.

Truth be told, Meliadoul found him quite pleasing just the way he was, for that was the man who'd broken her free of her nihilistic stupor, even when she'd been…less than grateful. Still, the sheer effort he was willing to put into making himself more appealing to her did tease a smile from her lips, along with a laugh or two as he'd used some…unorthodox means by which to accomplish those dance steps which were not designed for use when the lady was the taller of the two dancers.

The divine knight nearly choked on one of her giggles, however, when a cold, gauntleted hand clamped down upon her shoulder and spun her around with a wrenching tug.

She came to a stop, nearly losing her balance, and ended up face to face with a female templar, fully armed and armored, and whose pretty face was contorted with rage.

"Dame Lolotte Gervain?" Meliadoul blurted out, recognizing the fuming templar. "What are you doing here? Unhand me at once!"

"Or, what?" Lolotte asked with a sneer before raising her voice to attract the attention of the rest of the chamber. "Dame Meliadoul Tingel, as a woman-at-arms of the Knights Templar, and in light of your conspicuous absence from several key engagements during which our order was decimated, I name you deserter and coward, unfit to lead, or rebuild, the ranks of those you abandoned!"

"We both know those are very serious charges, and that there can be only one answer," the divine knight pointed out, her green eyes narrowing into emerald daggers.

"Indeed," Lolotte confirmed, her lips curving in a predatory grin. "And, I aim to prove them with my blade! Draw your sword, or borrow one, for I challenge you to defend your honor in a duel…or, will you flee from this battle as well?"

Meliadoul knew she was being baited, and not only before her own countrymen and the king and queen, but also the visitors from Ordalia and Romanda as well. She also knew that Dame Lolotte was a savvy opponent, nimble as a panther and just as deadly.

Meliadoul had seen Lolotte face a force of ten men singlehanded…and promptly leave them in five or six pieces each while she herself sported no greater disfigurement than a good sweat. But, Lolotte was also a base egotist, one who'd never engage in a fair bout gracefully…

…indeed, if she had any idea that Meliadoul had spent the last two months chasing down and slaying demons, Lolotte would've assuredly kept her mouth shut.

Regardless, though Lolotte was skilled, she was hardly above using taunts and insults, especially in front of an audience, to tip the scales in her favor. But, right now, Meliadoul didn't care.

She just wanted to smash that leering face in. And, if Lolotte wanted an unfair match, then she'd certainly come to the right place.

"A duel, you say?" she asked, as calmly as though asked if she might prefer red wine rather than white, and then her lips tugged into the smug grin which had been the final sight for many a foe during her years as a Templar. "I accept."


	25. Interlude 3, Part I: The Monster in the Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Delita is haunted by the phantom of a boy he thought long dead. Or is the figment of his over-active imagination and guilty conscious?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Co-Author's (Falchion1984) Note: THIS IS A VERY IMPORTANT NOTICE! The placement of Interlude 3 and 4, both of which will be broken into multiple parts, in the order of chapters is quite misleading. Both take place just after Chapter 17: To Court a Duchess. To review, the first ball has just ended, with a total lack of results, and Ramza, sensing that Delita is still in a bad way after his first suicide attempt, is worried that his old friend's mental state might have deteriorated further. This takes place before Izlude can attend the second ball and, therefore, before Ramza knows that Izlude is alive and has the Pisces Stone. So, as far as he knows, the slightly harebrained marry-Alma-off-to-an-Izlude-lookalike-soon-enough-to-pass-off-the-baby-as-his scheme still appears to be their only option. Now that that's done, enjoy!

There seems to be so little that binds together any two people living two lives, let alone the diverse throngs which called Ivalice home.

Whether men or women, young or old, rich or poor, highborn or low, wise or simple, strong of arm or keen of wit, artist or knight or merchant or farmer, it often seems that one could no more find two people who are truly alike than they could snatch at flurries of snow and discover two perfect twins amongst the minuscule yet intricate patterns of fluttering ice.

And yet, for all that, there is perhaps a single, immutable constant that is shared amongst these disparate souls.

And that constant is that, on some fateful and unbidden day, each and all must look into the mirror and see who they truly are.

On that day, the fullness of ourselves is laid bare, from the heights of our munificence to the depths of our malice. The victories and the follies, the kindnesses and the cruelties, that for which we are grateful and that which we regret.

One day, each and all will be staring back at us from within the glass as we behold ourselves with the mask of pretense having fallen away.

It is often remarked that the happiest man in the world could peer into the mirror at that moment and be quite content with what he sees.

Those who live lives less perfect, but still enviable in their own right, will see much to be thankful for, and regard whatever regrets may mar the image as being too few to mention.

Others, perhaps the most predominant amongst those who will face themselves at a time beyond mortal choosing, might see that for which they are grateful and that which repulses them as being more closely balanced and, depending on whether this realization is a challenge to make better use of what time remains to them or a condemnation for not having done better, they will either rise or crumble.

These are people who, whatever else may befall them, can nonetheless see the truth of themselves, their strengths and weaknesses, with a clear eye, coming to cherish the former and learning either to shoulder or overcome the latter. And, whatever these people see, whatever lesson they carry in their hearts when the moment passes, life continues afterwards. Different than before, perhaps even very different, but continue life does, either altered or merely illuminated by these discovered truths.

But, for a most misfortunate few, the truth can be unbearable.

And, even in the most peaceful of eras, to say nothing of the carnage and misery of the War of the Lions, when has humanity ever lacked for such souls soon to be tortured when that fateful moment forces them to behold all pretenses fall away, leaving behind the ugliness of a life ill spent?

The refugee who killed one of his fellows for a crust of precious bread, suddenly wondering if starvation would've been preferable to living as a murderer.

The parent who was oft abroad to ensure his or her children had an inheritance, who later ponders the worth of being there for their birthdays, Yuletides, and when their children were ill.

The merchant who, facing ruin at the hands of his competitors, turned the tables through dishonest means and cannot behold his wealth or accomplishments without seeing a patina of filth.

The sworn or hired blade, who lived by the sword and suddenly becomes consumed with musings about the lives of those who died by that same sword.

The criminal, of their infinite variants, who has ever evaded earthly law and yet sees ample cause to fear heavenly law upon their final breath.

The knight who made the impossible choice where honor or duty, but not both, could prevail and where neither choice fails to leave a wound that runs deep and bleeds invisibly.

The monarch or statesman who'd had to betray his or her own values, or even the trust of the people, for the sake of expediency, for whom an act hailed as exemplifying political acumen leaves disgrace staring back at them from the glass.

For these souls, bruised and bleeding by actions they wish they could undo, or which they should have done but did not, facing the truth of themselves, in all its terrible nakedness, is often more than most can bear. Some, undone by the hideousness of what they witness, burst into tears, shatter the mirror, wishing they could shatter what they beheld within as easily, and sink into a morass of regret and dissipation from which few are known to emerge.

For those who do not succumb, however, the future is uncertain, for what might happen traces paths as myriad as those who might embark upon them.

There are those who resign themselves to what they see, some either lurching forward with their lives as they soldier on while others hobble forth in a daze of disappointment deeply buried beneath a pale imitation of the lives they'd had before. In more dire cases, the outcome is even bleaker. Those who, broken by the horror of how far they've fallen and how late is the hour, let what time remains to them pass in a haze of drink and opium, which they imbibe in volume to dull the pain until anguish and joy alike fall forever beyond their grasp.

Yet, there are others who are very different. Some remarkable souls, grossly imperfect and yet refusing to be no more than the sum of their follies and shortcomings, unmoor themselves from what led them to such ignominy in their own eyes, seeking to forge themselves into something they can look upon in the mirror without shame.

For some, this they achieve alone in a harsh and lonely quest whose success they snatch from the jaws of despair through their own, often meager, inner resources. Most, however, need, if not the aid, then the words of those who have faith in them, where even the notion that someone holds the conviction that one seeking redemption in their own eyes might yet find it is enough to spur one to try and vindicate that faith.

Whatever journey is embarked upon, and where it may lead, however, is not the first consideration for those who would become more than the terribly flawed specimen they see gazing back at them. The act of changing oneself, of rising above one's misspent years, is often the apex of what will likely prove to be a long and grueling campaign.

The first step on that road is to accept the truth of what one sees upon beholding in the mirror how much lesser they are than they'd believed and wished they could be. For, just as one beholden to liquor or with a mind or spirit rendered unsound by some terrible trauma must acknowledge that which ails them before they can act to rectify it, so too must one who seeks to take that image in the mirror and supplant it with something better.

Such is easier said than done, however. Whether it be pride, or denial, or man's infinite capacity to rationalize that which they oughtn't have done and yet did anyway, most quail at the notion of admitting, even to themselves, the full depth of their ignoble deeds, their follies, their hypocrisies, and the too long leash they lend their baser natures. For those who seek to author a new and better chapter in their lives, accepting the ugliness of the prior volume can prove to be a battle in and of itself.

In the war council chamber, deep in the bowels of Lesalia Castle, King Delita Hyral the First waged such a battle…

…and, he was losing.

* * *

Situated well below the cobblestoned streets of Lesalia, and seemingly a thousand miles away from the endless lavishness of Lesalia Castle, the war council chamber was a well-hidden pocket of austerity amidst the bountiful decadence that so characterized the alabaster island from which the monarchs of Ivalice watched over the kingdom. Solely accessible via out of the way staircases, most of which the castle's inhabitants were unaware of, the chamber was as cold and grim as the purpose for which it was built.

It was here, at the grand oak table, that the prosecution of two wars, both of which had nearly brought Ivalice to rack and ruin, had been conducted; from the Viura Campaign, which had seen the tragic death of King Denamunda the Second snatch victory from Ivalice's fingers, to the signing of the treaty which had reunited Ivalice under the rule of the peasant born king and his royal bride.

Here, arrayed upon expansive maps, drawn and redrawn as territory was taken and lost, and as miniatures of knights and infantry were shuffled about in a deceptively simple portrayal of the tides of war shifting this way and that, the fortunes – or, rather, misfortunes – of war had been grimly tallied.

The dead and wounded, often nameless, were consigned to an ever-growing roll of statistics by the trembling hand of the royal scribe while commanders, their expressions as grim as the campaigns they'd waged, mulled over forays and defensive actions, both of which were made precarious by Ivalice's ever dwindling stores of blood and treasure. Here too, prepared as a hedge against the grandest of misfortunes, the chamber had also been built to act as a final redoubt, stocked with months' worth of dry stores, enough weapons and armor to outfit a small army, and designed by mages and siege engineers to be easily shielded from a foe's hand by defenses arcane and mundane.

Should capital and castle alike fall under siege from all quarters, and too swiftly for the embattled monarch to escape, these chambers could also serve to keep the royal family secure until help arrived from other provinces. Though constrained by space, such bits and pieces of profligacy as expensive rugs and a second throne had been placed elsewhere in this warren, in part to maintain the intermingled illusions that both the business of the crown would continue even were such a crisis to befall and that so dire a crisis would prove as fleeting as a seasonal migration from one clime to another.

Not many believed the latter, though none dared voice these sentiments aloud.

Even if the monarch in question was tolerant of contradictory, but harmless opinions, this warren, prepared as a desperate redoubt against the unthinkable yet inspired a nigh-superstitious dread in those who ensured it was kept in readiness even as they prayed it would never see use.

Those of the more skittish persuasion, and it was certainly hard not to be thus after more than half a century of calamitous warfare, genuinely feared that, were the disbelief in how short a time the warren would see use even if it were needed was voiced often enough, then some spirit of misfortune would not only work to see the chamber needed but ensure that it failed.

Though few, if any, would admit to these fears in public, any who saw to those chambers – either to brush away the dust they'd rather let carpet the place, inspect the dry stores they'd prefer to let rot, upholster furnishings that would see occupants only in the worst of waking nightmares, or tend to the impressive armory they longed to see rust to nothingness – those who saw to these chambers' upkeep often had to be coaxed, cajoled, or even browbeaten to tend to the war council chamber.

The shadowy alcove where warfare was prosecuted, and the shelter of embattled kings should their realm and people be swept behind enemy lines, the war council chamber was a bastion of secrets and a warren prepared as a last resort, wherein was spoken and laid upon parchment untouched by the sun those secrets and plans which could've sent all of Ivalice into a panic if discovered while battlefields yet rang with clashing steel.

After all, if the king feared for his safety enough to prepare for so unthinkable an end as to be besieged in his own castle, then how fearful should be those Ivalicians who dwelt in flimsy huts, far closer to the encroaching enemy hordes?

Now, after elusive peace had finally been found and this chamber had been forgotten, still another secret that could topple kingdoms now flitted about the shadows. Yet now, there was no scribe to put pen to parchment, nor any oath sworn commanders or councilors to take vows of secrecy. Indeed, it seemed the chamber was empty, save for one wretched soul who had somehow found his way to this hidden nook of the castle and now huddled in a corner muttering to himself…

…yet, this was no wretched soul, for any present might very well see the golden armor worn by the newly crowned king. And, further, he was not alone.

Deny it though the eye might, it was clear that Delita's own eyes beheld something unseen and yet terrible, for his green orbs were fixated upon some point before him which he regarded with equal parts anger and fear, before his gaze flicked away and his countenance adopted something akin to tremendous shame.

Any who beheld such a spectacle would've been bewildered, and more than a bit alarmed, that the same man who had ended the waking nightmare that was the War of the Lions had been brought low, fearful of the nameless malady that had undone a monarch so young in his reign and yet so beloved. These same people would, in due course, be revisited by the all too familiar fear they'd hoped had ended with the war, as a laborious but bright future suddenly seemed clouded.

Though few were likely to ponder much beyond that, some might speculate as to whom their king was seemingly speaking to, the unseen phantasm he referred to simply as "Algus".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry for the wait! This is Elly3981 and I'd like to note that Interlude 3, parts I, II, and II is entirely the work of my co-writer, Falchion1984. My own contributions will continue in the following chapters!


	26. Interlude 3, Part 2: Horrors from Beyond the Grave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Delita teeters on the brink of madness as his past catches up with him...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hi, this is Elly3981! I want to apologize for the wait since both my co-writer have been so busy with work and planning on how we want to continue this fic but rest assured, it won't be one of those countless abandoned fics! ;) We want to thank all our loyal readers who have been following our story since we started it as well as the prequel I wrote before it. We also welcome new readers and hope you all enjoy and review what we've got! ;)

Algus Sadalfas, blonde and blue-blooded, scion of House Sadalfas, long since fallen into ignominy after the family's patriarch had purchased his freedom from Ordalia through a traitorous bargain, his part of which he'd paid with the lives of his friends. Resentful of his family's ongoing misfortunes, and yet as haughty as if his wealth outstripped even that of kings, Algus had sought to blaze his way to a future that matched his towering pride by earning a knight's sword and carving a reputation from the hides of whatever worthy foes he might find. Much like the strange dichotomy between his demeanor and his circumstances, he'd fought his battles with the self-assurance of one who believed his victory preordained and yet with the desperate vigor of one who feared that his first defeat would be his last.

He hadn't changed much from that fateful day at Fort Zeikden.

His aristocratic air was still in evidence, as was the mingled smugness and condescension writ large across a face that had rarely let aught else cross it. He still wore the uniform of a humble squire of Limberry's Aegis Knights, made all the humbler given the shabby patchwork, likely by Algus or some family member given that servants desert the scions of traitors as readily as do bannermen. His blonde locks, arranged simply but groomed with great care, still shone like burnished gold and his eyes were still as blue as the waters of Finnath Creek, and just as frigid.

The biggest difference was the pair of hand shaped bruises which covered his neck, livid masses of black and purple so swollen that any who saw Algus might wonder as his ability to draw breath, let alone speak.

Delita knew those marks very well.

After all, he'd been the one to put them there.

After Algus had shot Teta, firing a crossbow quarrel into her chest as easily and as callously as if she'd been a deer he'd been hunting – or, given this was Algus, some far less dignified creature – Delita had promptly decided that the Limberry squire did not deserve the clean death by the sword that was the wont of a knight. Instead, Delita had overpowered him, grasped his throat, and, the pounding in his ears drowning out any pleas for mercy, had squeezed tighter and tighter until the hated Algus had fallen limp and silent.

Delita had never forgotten that day, where he'd shed his borrowed raiment of a Hokuten squire and buried his beloved sister.

Apparently, Algus hadn't either.

"It's almost worth dying, to see the man who killed me reduced to this!" he sneered, haughty amusement ringing loudly in his tone. "The Peasant King! the Diamond in the Rough! The Man who Tamed Two Lions! Oh, yes, you've spun quite the self-aggrandizing yarn since we last saw one another. But, I wonder how much your adoring public really knows about you. Probably not much, since you've very nearly forgotten. But, no matter. I'll reveal the truth from which you run!"

_And, indeed, there was a preponderance of truth, and there was nowhere to run._

_The most immediate and stinging of these truths was that, indeed, reduced Delita was._

_Ever since that night in his bedchambers with Ovelia – the naïve and unwitting imposter for a princess long dead, the desperate and impressionable girl he'd first sought to use as a pawn with which to realize his own ambitions, and the prisoner who'd become the jailer when his budding affection for her had flowered – Delita had fallen far from the image of the strong and yet compassionate monarch which he'd so carefully cultivated long before the crown had landed upon his brow._

_Where he had once been courteous and considerate, to both the very highest and the very humblest, as he'd actively sought to reaffirm that the future he was ushering in was for all Ivalicians, he had now become steadily more withdrawn and ever more deeply beset by a melancholy whose source remained enigmatic to those around him._

_Where he had once taken up dulled blade and did battle in the training arena with aspiring knights seeking to join his newly formed Order of the Chimera, flouting convention by winning handily without anyone needing to check their blade, he had caused more perplexity than pride in his opponents first by suffering repeated defeats and then ceasing to come to the arena all together._

_Where he had once shared with Queen Ovelia a marriage as much drawn from a children's bedtime story as his rise from a farmer's cottage to the throne room of Lesalia Castle, a strange distance had suddenly yawned wide between them and the couple sleeping separately, once a thing unthinkable, had become alarmingly commonplace._

_Though tongues wagged in discreet corners as to the cause of all this, and no small amount of fearful speculation was bandied about, the truth, as always, was more complicated._

_And, this was especially true whenever Delita Hyral was involved._

_There had been many who were aware of just how much fraudulence was interwoven in Delita's tale, though few of these yet lived and these had elected that the kingdom's best interests, or their own survival, were best served by keeping such secrets unto the grave._

_The most recent amongst those to discover just how much tarnish marred Delita's legend, however, was Delita himself._

_Following Teta's murder, the callous snuffing out of a promising young life who'd had the misfortune to be born to lowly sires, Delita had meticulously plotted not only how he would avenge himself and his sister, as well as all those whose birth had become shackles confining them to lives of thankless drudgery, but also meticulously studied the weapon that had seen Delita not even notice the strong length of chain he'd worn even as the adopted son of Lord Balbanes Beoulve._

_That weapon was the ability to manipulate. To play upon one's wishes and fears in order to chivvy them onto a course of the sibilant speaker's choosing…and ultimately into a corner wherein the manipulator's blade would find easy access to the dupe's back._

_Much to his surprise, when Delita had committed himself to learning the use of this new weapon, he'd discovered that he could wield it with impeccable skill, that he could enthrall, beguile, and fool those around him deftly…_

_…he'd even managed to fool himself._

_How many times had he watched Goltana raise taxes to ruinous heights and upend or ruin tens of thousands of lives, all so the deluded duke could dig himself a deep enough grave that Delita could topple him into it?_

_How many times had Delita allowed, or caused, other commanders to suffer disgrace and death so that Goltana would draw Delita deeper into his inner circle until he'd become Goltana's confidant, and then became his executioner?_

_How many times had Delita dangled Ramza, a man to whom he'd professed to love as a brother, before the jaws of church and state alike so that those he sought to destroy would have their eyes turned away from the true threat?_

_And, most tellingly of all, how many times had Delita told himself it was all for the greater good before he'd no longer needed to, accepting it all as the price of the better future he'd sought to create?_

_All the treachery, all the lies, all the deception, all the manipulation, all the lives callously discarded like so many pawns on a chessboard._

_When had he muzzled his conscience so effectively that, ultimately, all that hadn't even bothered him anymore?_

_He could not say. He feared to say. But, it mattered little, for his conscience could not remain muzzled forever._

_Through falling in love with Ovelia could not have been further removed from his original plan, he'd done nothing to uproot the affection which had blossomed in him during their time together. If anything, he'd allowed it to grow and flourish, enchanted by her charm and innocence to the point where, at times, the crown seemed a fringe benefit by comparison. And yet, the combined ambitions of winning Ovelia's love and Ivalice's crown had, over time, built and fortified a wall between his emotions and the sheer breadth, depth, and gravity of what he'd done._

_And then, one fateful evening, he'd realized that Ovelia, the woman he loved above all else, the woman at whose side he wished to bring to fruition a kingdom where their mutual tragedies would never be repeated, the woman he desired to bear his children and to grow old with, was terrified of him._

_Though she'd left it unspoken, she'd clearly carried the fear that, sooner or later, her usefulness to him would end, and his blade would find her heart as had been the case with so many others over Delita's sordid journey._

_And, worst of all, some part of him, deep and dark and yet so horrifically familiar, had considered doing precisely that then and there, even deciding how best to disguise the deed as a tragic accident._

_That series of blows had caused that wall within his mind to quaver, to split. And then, it had all come crashing down upon him at once, letting loose upon his shaken mind truths so sharp that they stabbed and so intense that they seared._

_After the first onset of these terrible revelations had, literally, taken Deltia's feet out from beneath him, he had struggled to press forward. After all, he still had a kingdom in desperate need of better leadership. He still had seven provinces he needed to forge back into a single nation. He still had vital infrastructure to rebuild, such as Fort Besselat and its sluice, the farmlands in Gallione and Limberry, the markets of Dorter and the trade routes that supplied them, and even the Lesalia City Gates that he'd so often shuffled to the bottom of the pile. He still had his new system of schools to build, so that those of lower birth would not be consigned to lives of thankless drudgery. He still had his supposed overseers from the Church who needed to be kept in their place._

_And, he still had his role to play in finding a husband for "Catherine Seymour"._

_He did not include saving his marriage on that list, however. He feared that particular ship had already been sunk._

_Yet, though he tried to find solace in the duties that came with his newfound crown, this availed him but briefly._

_The myriad conferences he held, by which those of high birth and low were ushered to the negotiating table, the intricacies of newly devised economic policies by which goods and coin might flow more freely rather than be stifled by tariffs predating his throne, seeking new blood to replace the conspicuous vacancies in both his knights and his administration._

_Gradually, each and all became crowded out by recollections of the people whose lives had been cut short, by his actions and inactions alike, until it all seemed a buzzing in his ears, a sad mockery of noble intent hopelessly despoiled by innocent blood._

_And, though he'd screened "Catherine's" would be suitors with great care, and kept secret the true reason why she was being married off so soon, he could not face either the man or woman who, underneath their disguises, had been as much family to him as Teta._

_He had tried to greet them when they'd arrived, and yet something held him back. Perhaps it was the recollection of how downcast Ramza, now more commonly known as "Drake Seymour", had looked when Delita had informed him that he'd not hesitate to kill him if his ambitions demanded it. Maybe it was recalling the venom in Ramza's words when the two had met again on the night "Drake" had been born and gifted with the home – or, rather, prison – of Lionel Castle. It might've been the bitter twinge of jealousy he felt when he saw Ramza and Agrias, happily married despite their wrongheaded courtship, and knowing that he'd thrown aside his chance at the same in his pursuit of power._

_It could've also been the unanswerable, yet ever more insistent question of whether Delita might've been able to bear the sight of his own reflection if he'd joined Ramza's damn fool idealistic crusade when he'd had the chance._

_Whatever the reason, Delita could not face his old friend._

_Gradually, the melancholy had become worse, growing from a distraction to a torment as sorrows, and the recollections of those whose lives he'd cut short or ruined, came not as lone spies but in battalions._

_Slowly, they began to flitter into the chamber in which he now huddled._

_He could see the agents Dycedarg had dispatched, in the guise of the Nanten, to assassinate then-Princess Ovelia. Given that they were attacking an isolated and practically unguarded monastery, the eldest son of House Beoulve had sent men better suited to deception and assassination rather than true combat._

_So, when Delita, garbed as they were and already well practiced in both their sordid crafts, had joined them, they'd believed his claim that he'd been sent to aid in their nefarious aims…right until he'd decapitated two of them and set upon the rest before they could react._

_He could see Baron Grimms, the former commander of the Blackram Knights, the modest knighthood which had gone from a glorified auxiliary unit to the fighting force that had bested Zalbag Beoulve and the Hokuten under Delita's leadership. The tale of how the baron, catching wind of Ovelia's abduction and dispatching his best lieutenant to rescue her, as well as how Delita had humbly assumed the mantle of leadership after his commander's death in battle against the Order of the Ebon Eye, had been an essential ingredient of the aspiring king's tale…_

_…which is precisely why he'd taken certain steps to ensure that he'd controlled how it had unfolded and that no witnesses could contradict him._

_Baron Grimms had, indeed, been killed in a battle against the Order of the Ebon Eye, but he had not been killed by the Order of the Ebon Eye._

_While fighting back-to-back against a ring of foes, whom Delita could easily dispatch once he needn't fear troublesome eyes witnessing the fullness of his abilities, he had reversed his blade and thrust it deep into the baron's back._

_Perhaps the baron had not realized that his deathblow came from a supposed friend rather than an enemy. Or, maybe he had. His final words, as was characteristic of the War of the Lions, simply added another patch of gray to the pall that soon hung over all of Ivalice._

_"How did it come to this?"_

_Such poetic waxing aside, Delita did know how it had come to pass. The humble lieutenant of the Blackram Knights had to, seemingly, rise from nowhere in the wake of one of history's tragic coincidences, reluctantly leaving his unit to save the abducted princess just before his compatriots and friends gave their lives in battle to ensure that his gallant rescue went unhindered._

_It added the perfect spice of tragedy to an already gripping story, lending a melancholy weight to Delita's every word as he humbly recounted his tale to Duke Goltana and his inner circle, whom he would also "lose" as the burden of loss, and of command, grew ever larger upon his humble shoulders._

_The decimation of the Blackram Knights had, indeed, been many things…but, "coincidental" was not one of them._

_Since the Blackrams were engaged in a campaign against the Eye for several weeks prior to Delita's departure, most had assumed they'd chanced upon forces beyond their strength and had been crushed. But, though was certainly plausible enough for most ears, and the Blackrams had, indeed, been overwhelmed by a greater force, the truth was, characteristically, more complicated._

_And, as was truth's wont in those days, and even beyond, it was also characteristically colder, darker, and uglier than most would consider, let alone believe._

_The Church of Glabados' long arms had allowed them to sow contacts amongst the masses, discontent with the crown and the nobility, and the Eye had been but one of many arrows in a vast store of munitions with which they sought to bombard the old order of Ivalice until it crumbled. All that was needed was for a message to be dispatched, a time and date decided, a battleground chosen and prepared, and a signal sent._

_This was done and, at once, the Blackrams were assailed._

_As was the case of many who'd held much ire towards the crown, the Eye was comprised of war weary veterans, without work and penniless after an ungrateful, and destitute, monarchy had summarily discharged them following the Fifty Years War. Either willingly or by necessity, these former knights had taken to banditry and, whether owing to the indignity of it all or the slim pickings which could be found amongst the honest folk of Ivalice who were little better off, it had been simplicity itself to convince them to attack a unit of lesser warriors._

_Whether they did so out of revolutionary fervor, a lust for coin, or hunger for revenge, none could say._

_But, then again, it mattered little._

_For the same people who'd enabled the Eye to launch their assault had also ensured that none of them would survive it._

_Unaware that this many fold betrayal had been laid out and planned long before, the Eye had eagerly answered the signal._

_It had been Delita who'd sent that signal, signing the death warrants of attackers and defenders alike._

_That had been the first time he had appointed himself as judge, jury, and executioner. But, it had not been the last._

_It might've been the last time he'd had qualms about it, though. Back then, he had rationalized it, weighing the blood of several dozen who would die against the hundreds of thousands who would live in a better world._

_By the time he'd killed Goltana, he'd no longer rationalized passing sentence on whomever might imperil his designs._

_By the time he'd spitted the Duke of Zeltennia on his blade, he'd gone from rationalizing it to enjoying it._

_He probably could've saved many lives by contriving some other way to leave his unit without first needing to arrange their massacre, or by using his newfound abilities to turn the tables on the attackers and force them to surrender or retreat._

_Of course, that would've raised a whole host of awkward questions and surely cause him to miss intercepting Ovelia's would-be assassins._

"Do you really think so?" the specter of Algus asked mockingly. "You couldn't have spun some fanciful tale to explain how a humble lieutenant could harness the power of the Holy Sword? We both know you're well practiced at deceiving others. You could've just mounted and fled, for they would've been in no shape to pursue. Or, it is because you _enjoyed_ it all?"

Algus's smile spread wide then, so much so that Delita could swear that blood began to seep from his overtaxed lips.

"Watching the dilettante sons of foppish nobles be hacked to pieces?" the specter pressed. "Just like me, you thought they were…except easier to kill, of course. At least I put up a good fight. But, then again, their helplessness likely delighted you. And, the Eye? Surely their surprise at seeing your _real_ skill and power must've shaken them. Did that please you, the way their eyes popped out of their sockets when they saw you use your Holy Sword skills? The way they blanched when you killed four of their number in two heartbeats? Being able to lord over them like that must've brought you true pleasure. I should know, I experienced it myself when I fought alongside you and Ramza in the Sand Rat Cellar."

The comparison was obvious enough; indeed, it sent Delita's stomach lurching until he collapsed in a spasm of dry heaving.

Some part of him, but one that was being ever more encroached upon by corrosive despair, grasped and flailed for some handhold or rung by which to climb free of the caustic void into which he was rapidly sinking, and yet there was none.

Maybe there had been an alternative to chivvying the Blackrams and the Eye to their deaths just to sweeten his tale, but he hadn't found it.

Indeed, he hadn't even bothered to look.

Instead, he had decided that nothing mattered more than his designs, to topple the old order, and thwart the Church's plot to rebuild it as their puppet, so that he might snatch the helm of Ivalice and steer her on a course of his own choosing.

The methods hadn't mattered, the lies hadn't mattered, the manipulations hadn't mattered, the deaths caused by his inactions hadn't mattered, the murders he'd committed hadn't mattered.

Only the ends had mattered, and they would eclipse whatever means had been necessary to achieve them.

That had been enough…

…until now.

And so, he'd carried out his plan as it had been penned, letting the Blackram Knights fall until, with only a handful of the Order of the Ebon Eye left to bar his way, he had unleashed his true power, repaying their underhanded assault in kind and leaving no survivors. Once there were none left to wonder just how a humble lieutenant could use the powers of the Judgement Blade, Hallowed Bolt, and Divine Ruination, Delita had left to pen the next chapter of his legend, his passage witnessed only by unseeing eyes soon to feed the carrion eaters.

Though their carcasses had surely been picked clean or buried, he knew not which, he could see many of them now crowding around him. Some wore the curving horns of the Blackrams and others the obsidian orb of the Eye, shedding tears of glossy black. And, none of the specters were whole.

One held his head in his hand while another's torso had been laid open so that one could stare right through his chest and see the far wall. And, all glowered at the pitiable state of their executioner.

Baron Grimms had ever cut a formidable and intimidating figure, and this was not diminished by the gaping rent that allowed torchlight to be clearly seen through what used to be his heart.

Something in Delita writhed and twisted in him, wanting, desperately, to speak to these apparitions. To explain, to beg forgiveness, to justify his actions with how their deaths, wrongful or no, had bought a better future for the land that knights and rebels alike had loved.

Yet, the words would not come.

All at once, they seemed to get stuck in his throat, to become indistinct in his mind, and to grow bitter on his tongue. Instead, he saw, with sickening clarity, Goltana justify his decision to tax his people beyond their means so that, by their sacrifices, the crown that cumbered the people with its every act might come to rest upon a worthier brow.

When had he and Goltana begun to sound so much like?

He could not say.

Algus, by contrast, could not seem to voice his thoughts fast enough.

"Truly an elegant irony, isn't it?" he asked. Then, as if to underscore his words, his handsome face seemed to putrefy before Delita's eyes. His striking features suddenly, and with nauseating rapidity, became sallow and tugged tightly against his prominent cheekbones while his hair, thinning and drying, suddenly grew to tease at his shoulders in limp tendrils of tarnished gold while his fingernails lengthened until they more resembled claws.

His blue eyes fogged and shriveled like grapes, one of them popping free of its socket to dangle by a thick length of optic nerve, while a mouth full of blackened gums and teeth that fell away to scatter on the floor spread in a horrifying smile across the face of Algus.

Dead might be the last son of the disgraced House Sadalfas, but the sight of Delita's downfall had apparently brought him much joy from beyond the grave.

Then, with a suddenness that jolted both the living and the dead, Algus' grin suddenly vanished. His throat, the bruises from his strangulation still vivid against the cadaverous flesh of his neck, began to pulse, tearing and flaking away. Then, with a wet heave, the undead Sadalfas vomited forth a gout of blood. It hit Delita square in the chest, unnaturally vivid in color and so hot that he could feel its sickening warmth right through his armor.

And, to his horror, the blood seemed to take on a life of its own. Even as he watched, the blood roiled like a stormy sea, waves of sticky crimson rising, contorting into hundreds of tiny skulls and letting out shrieks of agony before melting back into the tiny red sea.

In revulsion and despair, Delita clapped his hands over his ears to block out the sickening howls, only to be sickened all the more when his hands, sticky with blood he did not recall landing upon them, gummed his hands to his ears. He tore them away, painfully, and his shriek of pain blended perfectly with the chorus of lost souls crooning upon his breast.

Yet, though this onslaught had jolted the already anguished monarch, ripping open forgotten wounds and rubbing in enough salt to render the realm itself fallow, it was but the first salvo of what the rotten carcass of his rival doubtless intended to be a lengthy assault.

How could it be otherwise, when he had all of Delita's victims to use as his ammunition?

"Does it grieve you to see the depths of your own weaknesses laid bare?" Algus asked, laughing in maniacally as Delita blanched at the spectral host. "Oh, you'd be astonished how many restless souls have joined me on this most auspicious day, eager to punish the man who cut short their lives. Oh, but you need not take my word for it. I'm sure their stories speak for themselves!"

The next specters to appear had been Chancellor Glevanne who, unlike the spineless, sycophantic toadies that were so abundant in Goltana's inner circle, was a clever and conniving man with the uncommon ability to think for himself. So, it came as no surprise when the Church's intelligence indicated that he was secretly supporting Larg and Dycedarg's efforts to assassinate Ovelia and pin the deed on Goltana. Once Ovelia was safely in Goltana's keeping, it hadn't taken long to notice the way Glevanne's hands wrung and his eyes darted fervently towards the exit. And, when Delita's "prisoner" had been dragged into the room, he could practically hear the chancellor's stomach drop.

Granted, like so much else in those days, the "prisoner" hadn't been what he'd seemed. Granted, he had served in the Hokuten during the apex of the Fifty Years War, but he had been summarily discharged well before he'd been allegedly "ordered" to reduce the number of heirs to the throne. With no work, little money, and his scruples having been yet another casualty of that terrible conflict, it had taken only a small offering of coin to convince him to play a part, along with the promise of many times that sum as reward afterwards. This had been more than enough to secure his "testimony" against Glevanne.

Both Delita, and the Church, could afford to be lavish with their promise of reward. After all, their pawns would not live long enough to receive it.

Heady with his ambition of being king in all but name, Goltana had scarce questioned the validity of such grave allegations against a longtime aide, nor raised any objections when Delita had executed the chancellor on the spot with neither trial nor even a chance to plead his case. And, when the witness to their treachery was found dead soon after, Goltana had scarcely questioned the notion that another agent of Larg had been responsible.

Both Glevanne, and the man who'd falsely testified against him, whose name Delita hadn't bothered to learn, leered at him even now.

Their frowning faces contrasted quite vividly against the broad grins where their jugulars used to be.

These particular murders had not bothered Delita nearly as much as some of the others he'd committed. Indeed, that a bit of gold could buy their word and their loyalty had added a spice of self-righteous indignation to the act of killing them.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he'd recalled the lessons of Balbanes, his adoptive father. Likely the last true practitioner of chivalry, his righteous and idealistic son notwithstanding, Balbanes had made no secret of his disdain for those whose loyalty was for sale and who'd break a solemn vow for any sum of gil.

Had that recollection, and the knowledge of how far Ivalice had fallen from the times when Balbanes' honor was a common trait, been what had firmed Delita's sword arm when he'd killed Glevanne and his anonymous accuser?

And, if so, why hadn't that same recollection informed Delita that Balbanes would never have condoned an execution without a proper trial? Or pointed out to Delita the thick layer of blood he was painting over his heart by matching their corruption with his own?

Had he forgotten amidst the thrill of the intrigue and the gratification of realizing his vision?

Or, had he simply stopped caring about how far he had fallen from the ideals of knightly virtue which he'd once held so dear and which Teta had been so proud of him for pursuing?

Unable to answer his own questions, and dreading just what the answers might be, he let out a long wail of hopeless agony which, though it shook the chamber to its foundations, fell only on the ears of his spectral tormentors.

Delita was stumbling about the side rooms of the war council chamber, his faltering feet sending incongruously expensive rugs askew and knocking over racks of weapons and armor.

Some of these he picked up and hurled at the horde of spirits that dogged his heels, but all whistled through the press of vaporous forms, clattering in the distance, as the vengeful phantoms marched ever nearer.

And, ever at their head was Algus.

As the unspoken ringleader of Delita's victims continued to summon more and more specters from his host, his face continued to change. At times, it would putrefy more and more, maggots bursting free of rotten flesh to writhe upon the floor. Yet, seemingly at timed intervals, his face would become like that of a living man again, sometimes even more comely than he'd been in life.

As he introduced several ghosts from the Corpse Brigade that the young king had killed at the onetime Brigand's Den, Algus had, for a moment, been so fair as to parch Delita's throat…

…then, in the middle of a sentence, those dazzling blue eyes were dangling by their optic nerves again, a hail of rotten teeth setting them to swaying as they fell.

"Oh, do let me guess," he said mockingly, his words slightly distorted by the decrepit condition of his mouth. "You were just following orders? What a coincidence! So was I that day at Fort Zeakden!"

As if the name had been the incantation which invoked some fell magic, which might not have been far from the truth, Delita could swear he was back in the snows again, watching as Golagros, the Corpse Brigade Knight who'd fallen so far from chivalry as to put a woman between himself and the Hokuten's blades, held Teta before him as a shield.

For a long moment, Delita simply stared at her, wishing to carve her very memory into his heart, as he recalled both what would happen next and how her remains would be savaged by the impending explosion. Yet, almost against his will, his gaze swerved in a different direction…the direction from which the fatal shot would surely come.

Sure enough, Algus stood there at Zalbag's side, as haughty of mien as ever he was and the crossbow at the ready.

Once again, it all came back to Delita. He recalled how Dycedarg had sworn that Teta's rescue would take precedence, even as the final redoubt of the Corpse Brigade lay besieged. He recalled the desperate hope mingled with terrible dread as he saw Teta, so near to rescue by men whom Delita had longed to call his brothers-in-arms, and yet still in such dire peril.

At her fore was a bevy of armed knights who, through an errant stroke of the blade, might see her rescue become a funeral.

At her back was the blade of a man who'd made repeated threats to see her dead were he not permitted to go free. And, at his back was a store of gunpowder that could turn the whole tundra into a crater…

…which, any minute now, it would.

Even as he remembered how he had fervently believed in Zalbag – and, by extension, Dycedarg – until the last, and even as his eyes darted between Zalbag and Teta, wanting to call out something that would avert the coming tragedy and yet fearing the sudden sound might act as the spark to ignite this quite literal powder keg, he noticed something else.

Something that had eluded his eye even after revisiting this scene a thousand times in his nightmares.

Algus's face, just as he released that quarrel.

Delita had seen the Limberry squire take an almost feral delight in dealing out pain, from how he'd left Corpse Brigadiers gargling on their own blood in the slums of Dorter to how he'd, literally, beaten the information about the abducted Marquis Elmdor out of a prisoner. He remembered how Algus's comely face became so warped with a vicious self-righteousness as he'd assailed his foes, sometimes getting so heady with his pride and sense of vindication that he had to be forcibly rescued when he'd unwittingly ventured into the grasp of foes beyond his strength.

Yet, rather than salivating at the prospect of adding yet another lowborn to his list of kills – and one being kin to the peasant who'd become his foil, no less – Algus instead seemed calm. In place of what Delita had initially taken to be Algus's customarily haughty aristocratic mien was instead a cool and collected expression that seemed almost foreign on his often-livid features. Though Delita had never witnessed this scene in his nightmares without the all too familiar dread of what was to come and the anguish at knowing he could do nothing to stop it, perplexity now began to slither its way into the otherwise horribly familiar scene. Where was the leering anticipation of the kill, which was as much a part of Algus's features as either his golden locks and blue orbs?

Where was the smug satisfaction of seeing a peasant maid, who'd masqueraded as a lord's daughter, laying cold and dead at the feet of her betters?

For that matter, where was the look of relief on Zalbag's face, now that the sole impediment to the Corpse Brigade's extermination was gone and the unwanted peasant marring his sister's social standing removed, likely assuring her equally unwanted brother would depart as well?

Why was he instead inclining his head, closing his eyes, and letting words beyond Delita's hearing writhe upon his lips?

Then, the answer came to him in a flash of clarity, throwing into sharp relief a final grain of truth that sent the over-weighted scales within Delita's mind toppling over, the reverberating impact causing the few remaining pillars of his life to crash down around him.

For so long, he had nursed his plots and schemes based on the callousness with which his sister's life had been taken. He had envisioned the customary sneer of malice on Algus's face, along with the barely visible twinge of relief and approval on Zalbag's features as the lowborn wench who'd dragged down his sister's social standing was removed. Delita had envisioned this, seemingly thousands of times, adding color and detail to the image as might an artist would to a creation towards which he'd dedicated his life. And, for so long, it had been his vision, as though shared from the heavens, that he had to but glance upon whenever he needed to renew his sense of purpose.

And yet, seen in this strange, new light, he realized that this "vision" had been every bit as flawed and despoiled as what he'd done with it.

Zalbag was not sighing in relief to have one less peasant step-sibling in his household.

He had been praying; both for Teta's soul, which would be sent to the heavens prematurely, and his own for having ordered that the grim deed be done.

And, Algus had not been eyeing Teta as a hunter might an eighteen-point buck, nor had the customary pleasure of the kill been upon his features.

Instead, Delita realized to his horror, that Algus had done precisely as he'd said.

He had simply been following orders.

Some might call that a paltry distinction, especially when weighed against the death of an innocent girl which resulted from those orders being followed. But, for Delita, a man who'd never allowed one detail to go unobserved, or unexploited, this singular discrepancy was as good as an unsound foundation upon which had been built a castle.

The cracks grew and spread, joining with others of his creation and otherwise, connecting to form a new and twisted picture which soon engulfed and overshadowed that which had long been his star of destiny.

Algus must've noticed his dismay, for his once more exquisite face smiled beamingly.

"Did you really think me shooting Teta was to settle some grudge I had with you?" he asked, almost amused by the notion. "Don't be so vain. We both know I never considered you nearly that important. Hell, I wasn't even sure she was the same woman until you had your grubby mitts around my throat!"

With each word, Algus's face began to decay again, though no amount of putrefaction could obscure the rage in his expression.

"You know, Zalbag didn't even want to me shoot her," he went on, confirming Delita's earlier supposition. "He'd actually hoped to be upon those rogues too soon for them to react, let alone hide behind their mongrel hostage. He even rebuked me when I suggested that Teta's – yes, I bothered to learn her name, uncharacteristic though it was – life would be a small price to pay for destroying the Corpse Brigade. Backhanded me rather fiercely, he did."

As though the words had been a summons, a livid bruise suddenly darkened one of Algus's cheeks, which had remained unaffected even as the rest of him rotted.

"Still, being at the vanguard of the host that finally crushed the Corpse Brigade and dragged Weigraf to Lesalia in chains? I knew it was too good an opportunity to miss," Algus continued as patches of his flesh became fair while others turned foul, only for these to reverse seemingly with every breath. "Yet, I also knew that raising Zalbag's ire could see me kept from the fray, and from the glory that would've seen my House rise from ignominy to greatness. So, I used what I knew of the man, and what I'd seen of the Brigade, to craft my words. Zalbag had always loathed seeing innocents in peril, even the rabble, and he was most disgusted when Gustav's resorting to abduction turned out not to be a mere aberration. I saw the picture with clearer eyes, of course, but I'd already learned that being…overly candid would not avail me. So, I chose the time and place, and the words, with care. I told him how he already had proof that whatever the Corpse Brigade was, it was now degenerating into a pack of brigands who, if left to their own devices, would surely sow more misery and terror upon the very people they claimed to be fighting for, and who Zalbag had been fighting for his whole life. Weigraf was losing control of the brigade, I said. Ramza had testified to this, reporting how Wiegraf had killed Gustav when we'd found Marquis Elmdor, abducted against orders, I said. Naturally, this begged the question; if the Corpse Brigade's supposed code had been broken twice, who's to say when, or how, the next aberration might occur? And, how many lives it would cost? Surely, one life was a small price to pay in order to prevent a hundred tragedies? It took some time, and much care, but I managed to sway him to my line of thinking."

Here, Algus paused for grand effect, rotten teeth falling away as pristine incisors sprouted to replace them a heartbeat later.

"Sound familiar?" he asked rhetorically. "It seems Dycedarg wasn't your only teacher. In fact, we're far more alike than you know. You seethed at how being born to chattel meant that Balbanes's charity was the only reason you could even become squire, let alone a knight. You resented those who'd never accepted you, even though you'd proven yourself their equal in skill and courage, if not their superior, time and again. I seethed at how I'd been born the scion of a traitor, impoverished when I should've been wealthy and scorned where I should've been lauded. I outshone my fellows effortlessly, but I was passed over for knighthood again and again, shunned by comrade and superior alike, and all for a crime I didn't even commit!"

The correlation which Algus was drawing was becoming clearer and clearer to Delita. It was equal parts ingenious in its simplicity and diabolical in its intricacy. And, he still wasn't done.

"How often did you want a better life for your sister after you'd gleaned how she'd been treated at that school?" Algus asked, posing yet another question where the answer was a formality. "About as often as I did for mine, I suspect. Oh, that surprises you, I see? Well, I never said, and you never asked. Besides, what was there to say? You already knew much of my misfortunes and you could guess the rest. Surely, you can imagine how much worse it was for _my_ sister?"

And, indeed, Delita could. Though the daughters of lordly houses joining their brothers in the knighthood was an emergent phenomenon, those who were expected to instead elevate their House's status and fortunes through advantageous marriages were still prevalent. And, though few such marriages were loving, they offered many a rung by which social climbers could reach new heights and, by extension, a way for noble houses fallen on hard times to reverse what might otherwise prove a long, terminal slide into destitution.

Undoubtedly, whatever was left of House Sadalfas, which was likely very little, staked their very future on Algus becoming a great knight and his sister marrying well, presumably after Algus's triumph over his grandfather's ignominious legacy had induced potential suitors to come knocking.

"And, what do you think happened to her after I died?" Algus asked, as though reading Delita's very thoughts.

Delita didn't answer, and he didn't have to. A destitute young noblewoman whose name was tarnished by the crimes of her forbearer and who had no one left to counter such old ignominy with valor shown in the here and now? His fertile imagination could devise a hundred likely endings for such a girl.

And, none of those endings were happy ones.

Most destitute noblewomen, bereft of coin and land and with no possibility of advantageous marriage by which to extricate themselves from the gutter, fared little better than their humbly born counterparts, especially in war. Like as not, the unnamed daughter of House Sadalfas had been lost amongst the teeming masses displaced by the conflict, washes away amidst a veritable ocean of those ravaged by hunger, disease and despair.

Starvation or prostitution, or both, were likely fates. And, in either case, a quick death, though still tragic, would likely be kinder by comparison.

And yet, Delita had no idea of her fate. Not her whereabouts, not how she fared, not even her name.

Indeed, he didn't even have any proof that this supposed daughter of House Sadalfas existed, save for the word of the revenant who was once her older brother.

And, considering that Delita was taking this "source" seriously, he could not say whether this bespoke of the weight of his crimes or depths of his madness.

Yet, given just how complete and incontrovertible both were, what did it matter?

Again, Algus's face became breathtakingly fair and, for once, his normally haughty features instead betrayed deep sadness but which was edged with grim satisfaction.

"We're quite a pair, aren't we?" Algus asked, his haughtiness replaced with solemnity. "Both of us, nearly alone in the world save for our sisters. The blameless maidens we'd do anything for."

Again, Algus paused and the putrefaction overtook his face to such a degree that Delita retched at the sight of it.

"Anything at all," he gargled through a mouthful of congealed blood and phlegm. "Deceive, lie, betray, murder. After all, wasn't that why we did it all? Making sure the other Tetas of the world didn't share that same fate, thrown aside like a piece of rubbish because she was "inconvenient" to those of higher station. Wasn't that the reason you strung along the woman you claim to love and then blackmailed her into staying with you after she learned what you'd done to build "her" kingdom? Wasn't that the reason you arranged for the Blackrams and the Eye, one group who trusted you as a brother-in-arms and the other a group who believed you a kindred spirit, to meet and kill each other? Wasn't that the reason you participated in providing false testimony against Orlandu and, when Goltana trusted you as he might a son, repaid his faith with a blade through the chest? Wasn't that the reason you dangled Ramza, a man you professed to love like a brother, before the jaws of church and lions time and again?"

With each word, Algus seemed to rot a little more, tufts of limp hair and pieces of festering skin cascading to the cold stone. And, just as surely as the decay continued to rain down, bit by bit until little more than sinew and bare bones remained, so too did an illusion so well hidden that even Delita had been ignorant of its very existence.

"Wasn't that why I killed many who'd done me no wrong?" Algus went on. "Wasn't that the reason I played upon the conscience of a man I respected and admired, and then shot a complete stranger while she was bound and unarmed? Wasn't it so that my sister might not live and die as our parents had, loathed by all for a crime committed before she'd even drawn her first breath? Oh, how easy it was to use our poor, defenseless sisters to justify our sordid deeds. So long as it was to safeguard their futures, or to avenge them, what was truly forbidden?"

Delita, though nearly insensible with grief, had a terrible presentiment about where this was going and, sure enough, confirmation came with the surety of the setting sun…right down to how it left cold darkness in its wake.

"Both of us were so furious at the world, at the cruel tricks of fate that were played on us before we even saw our first sun, that we sought to wash it away with the blood of those we blamed for our troubles," Algus declared, a faint octave of sadness echoing through the veritable symphony of derision in his tone. "And, whenever anyone asked, even ourselves, all we had to say was that we were doing it for those blameless and yet so misfortunate maidens who'd been likewise born and yet soldiered on. Our sisters. They were why we lied, deceived, manipulated, and murdered. It was also why we, both of us, took the purest things in our lives…and corrupted them."

Had the chill of the Romandan tundra been coalesced into an ice dagger and thrust into Delita's back, his blood could not have runner colder than it did at this final blow.

_Seeing Teta in his mind's eye was a frequent occurrence after her death, for her memory, and how much happier her life would've been had she been born in the kingdom Delita sought to create, had been another star of destiny by which he'd plotted his course and whose radiance refused to be snuffed out by danger or adversity._

_Yet, in using Teta's memory as he might a banner to rally his troops or a sword with which to cut down his foes, he had forgotten something truly vital about the woman whose name he'd invoked as he'd blazed his trail of deceit and murder._

_He'd forgotten who Teta was._

_He'd forgotten how she'd endured the deaths of their parents and her mistreatment at the hands of the spoiled daughters of nobles at that school without complaint. He'd forgotten how she'd treasured Alma's friendship, and Ramza's by extension._

_He'd forgotten that she would never have condoned bloodshed over a few cruel words, which she'd viewed as paltry compared to the new home and surrogate father and siblings she'd gained when Balbanes had taken in her and Delita. He'd forgotten that she treasured Alma's friendship and the nigh-sisterly love they'd shared, and how she would never have deliberately endangered her and Ramza, nor exploited them in their hour of need._

_He'd forgotten that, in avenging Teta's death, he had dragged her life through the mud, again and again, until, much like his marriage to Ovelia or his friendship with Ramza, it had become so warped beyond recognition that gazing upon it filled his very soul with anguish._

_As he sank to the cold stone, his reddened eyes awash with tears of despair, he saw Algus standing above him. And, in that countenance of hideous dualities, of corruption and malice, of pride wounded and haughty alike, Delita saw himself._

_He saw how far he'd fallen, and how late was the hour. He saw the sheer depth and breadth of what he had done, and the many layers of blood on his hands. He saw how that blood had gotten there, through his actions and inactions alike. He saw how those he professed to care for had been lied to, manipulated, and betrayed again and again, all so he could get…what?_

_Vengeance for Teta, who would've been horrified at what he'd done in her name?_

_The addition to his legend of a marriage to a princess, whom he loved and yet had shown her that his heart was one of ice?_

_The approval of the man who'd been his best friend, and whom Delita had dangled before the jaws of death and had now made a virtual prisoner in the bleak fastness of Lionel Castle?_

_A kingdom that was enamored with him in their ignorance of his true self while, in ways subtle and not, he had been keeping the realm's wounds green and propounding warnings that any attempt to upset his chosen course might send the ship of state floundering?_

_Had all that been worth it – could anything have been worth it – when the price was becoming a monster that greatly outshone the malevolent specter before him?_

_Whether it was minutes or weeks, Delita could not say. But, at some point, a spark had kindled in his breastbone. Something began to smolder in his unbalanced mind, turning his tears to rage. Rage not just at Algus, nor even at himself, but at everything._

_This life he had been born to, an orphan in one world and a play-actor in another. This kingdom he had built upon a foundation of treachery and mortared together with blood, while unwittingly tearing down what truly mattered to him. This kingly image he had crafted for himself through luring all around him into dancing upon strings like so many puppets, ignorant of the crimson that so stained the puppet master's hands._

_And, most of all, he raged at his own blindness. At how often he'd told himself that his dealing death, whether with dispassionate callousness or perverse delight, would all be worth it if a better Ivalice rose from the ashes, at how often he'd told himself he was doing it all for Teta, for Ovelia, for the common people who deserved a brighter future which would not come unless the present was overthrown, when, in truth, that had been an illusion he'd created for himself._

_Because, he finally realized, he'd instead been thinking about himself._

_Of vindication, of retribution, of the people who'd once looked down their noses upon him having to bend knee before him or end up on the streets, of the people who'd been born humbly seeing him as the first and greatest proof that their station would not be their life and death. Of making sure no sign of the brightening future went without being stamped as his brainchild, of the swooning women and the adoring children, of the lonely graves of the unlamented souls he'd killed so that he'd never see another Teta, a young life cruelly and senselessly snuffed out._

His _legacy._ His _kingdom._ His _ego._ His _pride._

Himself.

_And now, the long road he had paved, stone by stone, and embarked upon, step by step, had reached its end and he saw the final trap snap shut upon him. For now, himself was all he would ever have._

_With the improbable mix of a man walking to his own execution with grim determination and the nigh feral rage of a man ready to kill a dozen with his bare hands, he rose. Some taunts passed Algus's ever-changing mouth, but they were drowned out by the blood pounding in Delita's ears. Instead, he snatched up a sword that he'd knocked over earlier and, with a roar like that of the lions under whose banner he'd marched, he charged._

He would kill the revenant of Algus, or he'd be killed by him.

Frankly, he didn't care which.

He just wanted it to be over, and was past caring how, or by whose hand, that end came.

And, if Algus proved as lacking a foe in death as he did in life, it mattered little.

After all, manipulating the outcome was what Delita did best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interlude 3, Part II is coming up real soon so look forward to it! ;)


	27. Interlude 3, Part 3:  To Forgive is to Heal, To be Forgiven is to be Saved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Along with his duties as the new Duke of Lionel, Ramza becomes a personal psychiatrist to his old friend who just happens to be the new King of Ivalice...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, everyone! Too all our loyal readers who have been following this story for the past few years, thank you so much for your patience! On a note, all Interludes were written solely by my brilliant co-writer and editor, Falchion1984. Enjoy and please review!

The nightmare that had haunted the dreams of all kings of Ivalice was coming true…

…well, sort of.

Within hours of the crown falling upon his head, with the luster of its gold and the weight of its burdens, the king was informed of this final redoubt within which he and his kin and court would be secreted in the event of capital and castle being besieged by Ivalice's enemies. And, just as those who maintained the war council chamber had a nigh superstitious dread that this final defense of the king would see use, and fail when the time came, so too did the prospect of battle following in pursuit of the monarch who scrambled to this grim warren haunt the darkest dreams of the king and all his inner circle.

And now, at long last, that ancient dread was realized.

Battle had come to the war council chamber, the last refuge of the kings of Ivalice, but the invader was neither the Ordalians with their curved blades and horned helms, nor the Romandans with their guns and cannons.

Indeed, had other eyes been upon this chamber, they would see only bare stone being cratered by pillars of sacred ice, furniture blasted to splinters by heavenly lightning, and carpet scorched black by divine radiance.

And, they would see the king, red of eye and feral of face, wreaking havoc upon a phalanx of foes that, apparently, he alone could see.

Of course, those red rimmed eyes saw something far different.

Every shard of ice conjured by his Judgement Blade, each pillar of Hallowed Bolt, and all the searing beams of Divine Ruination was unleashed with deadly purpose, and behind every display of the Holy Sword arts was the rage of a man betrayed by his own folly and the grief of a life misspent and ruined.

And, dancing away from each blast, was the ever-sneering revenant of Algus Sandalfas, a taunt and a laugh passing his lips with each escape.

"You don't stand a ghost of a chance against me." Algus snickered. "The Gods have no eyes for chattel!"

On and on the chase went, curtains of red descending over the devastation and the sound of stone being crushed and wood being splintered giving way to a shrill ringing. And yet, through it all, Algus remained untouched, save by the decay which withered his limps and yet left him more agile than he'd been while alive. Snarling, Delita invoked another Hallowed Bolt, this time so close that it dazzled his eyes and made his hair stand up on end. His vision cleared in time to reveal that Algus was gone. For the better part of a heartbeat, he wondered if he had finally slain again the man he'd slain once, when a snatch of sound drew his gaze to the arched doorway on the far side of the room.

"Try and attack me, you arrogant fool!" Algus challenged though incisors that fell out and sprouted anew over and over again. "I'll suck out your life force!"

Delita turned, beheld his nemesis, and, incensed beyond reason, charged.

And, beyond reason he was.

Had but a drop of lucidity remained to him, he might've noticed that his foe had seemed startled, even alarmed, by the sudden attack; a peculiar reaction from one who had lost his life and could not lose it again. No less peculiar, his enemy had drawn a sword. Yet, this blade was not one of the many which had been spilled amidst the chase, for he'd drawn it from a scabbard which he'd not had before, which was affixed to a belt he'd not been wearing before either.

Yet another oddity still was why a foe who was undead, and had no cause to fear the slash of a simple sword, would bother to parry.

But, this was lost on Delita, who, abandoning all technique in favor of unbridled rage, lunged forward and brought his blade down upon Algus with a blow strong enough to fell a tree in one stroke. Feral delight crossed his features as Algus's arms buckled under the impact and he was driven back.

Some sliver of joy worked its way into Delita's being at this turn in the tide, but anger promptly devoured him once more at the final insult.

"You could not save your sister from me," Algus reminded him. "And now, you cannot even save yourself from me either!"

Another blow fell, and another and another after that, in a fury driven frenzy which could only be quenched by the blood of both combatants. Yet, as metal grinded together and sparks sprayed the air, Algus yet remained unscathed, his blade a blur of motion as he deflected or slapped aside even Delita's mightiest blows and skittered away from the rest. Yet, though many opportunities to strike back presented themselves amidst Delita's reckless onslaught, neither riposte, nor slash, nor thrust interrupted the succession of masterful blocks, parries, and dodges.

Delita should've found this perplexing, perhaps even cause to lower his blade, but in his present state these peculiarities but incensed him all the more.

"Damn you!" he howled. "Stand and fight, Algus!"

Had he imagined Algus's eyes pulsing wide at those words? Perhaps, perhaps not. But, he cared nothing in any case. Instead, he continued to batter at Algus's defenses until, having him hemmed between two pillars which flanked a corner of the chamber, he finally saw his foe's blade waver under the relentless assault. Delita drew back his sword, keen to have Algus's head from his shoulders, but his foe was suddenly gone. Too late, and with the sword whistling through the air with such force as to turn Delita on his heel, he realized that his foe had tucked into a roll and launched himself through the tiny gap in what seemed an inescapable trap.

"There is no place in the world for the meager!" Algus spat, a spray of congealed blood accompanying the caustic words.

The long-delayed counterattack came at last when Delita felt white hot pain shoot through his shoulder. Even as numbness crept up his arm, he took one last swing at Algus, only for his blade to be battered aside again. This time, the sword was torn free of his grasp and sent flying. What remained of Delita's mind pointed out that it was peculiar for Algus to smash his shoulder out of joint when he could've hacked off his arm, and more peculiar still that his foe would choose this moment to sheathe his sword. But, that voice was only a whisper now.

Deaf, figuratively and nigh-literally, to whatever taunts writhed on Algus's partially rotten lips, Delita answered the unheard words with his fist. Algus was sent staggering by the blow, though he recovered with surprising speed. More incredulous than surprised, and with the Martial Arts training of a Monk being yet another of the many skills with which he'd ruined himself, Delita came on. He unleashed a flurry of punches and kicks, supplemented by Aura Blasts that gouged craters in the walls and Shockwaves which brought further ruin upon the already pockmarked floor. His pounding heart afire with rage and anguish that crushed fatigue and pain alike, he continued the onslaught, many blows slipping past Algus's defenses to smash into his ribs, to flatten his nose, to ensconce his eyes in coronas of bruising, and to pummel his stomach.

Yet, Algus was giving as good as he got.

Though he dodged far more often than he countered, his nigh skeletal hands seemed more akin to steel than bone. One punch to Algus's ribs was repaid in kind and had Delita gasping while a blow to one sunken cheek was answered with another that had Delita's left eye swelling up. On and on it went until, at the crucial moment, the fire in Delita's blood suddenly ran short on fuel to keep it burning. Lightheaded, and more than a bit concussed, his straining arm trembled and his fist went astray.

And Algus, almost hesitantly, struck him full on.

"You'll wish you were mongering flowers like you ought once this blow falls!" Algus sneered triumphantly.

A blow to the solar plexus knocked the wind right out of the Delita and the following uppercut sent him hurtling end over end to crash in an undignified dangle atop the sole undamaged chair in the room, staring bleary eyed at the inverted image of his tormentor as he limped his way along the floor where the ceiling should be.

Then, perhaps jolted free by the repeated beatings he'd taken, lucidity finally returned and forced its way past Delita's bleeding and swollen lips.

"Since when do hallucinations hit that hard?" he asked no one in particular.

Though the words were barely audible, and likely went unheard, an answer came nonetheless when the battered Algus staggered near and, his once haughty expression suddenly one of earnest concern, spoke.

"Can we talk?"

As much as they could in their swollen state, Delita's eyes bulged in astonishment. The voice had come from Algus's mouth, and it was Algus's lips that formed the words.

Yet, it was not Algus's voice which had spoken.

It had neither Algus's condescending tones, nor the precise staccato and curious vowel shifts of his native Limberry. Instead, it was smooth and mellifluous, uniquely open and bereft of the inflections which he'd learned to hint at ulterior motives.

It was a voice that engendered trust, which was reassuring to the ear, and which Delita knew as well as his own.

"Ram...Drake?" he rasped out, barely remembering to use the pseudonym he'd "given" to Ramza, along with his stewardship of, and veritable imprisonment in, Lionel Castle.

Sure enough, the image of Algus, now doubled after a particularly nasty blow to the face, began to change. One of the two Alguses remained as he was, though he'd fallen silent. But, the other was no longer blonde, nor was he half in the grave and half out. Instead, he was red haired, untouched by whatever macabre spell had had Algus looking fair one moment and rotting to his bones the next. And, though he was battered, bruised, and bleeding from their brawl, he paid no heed to his injuries and instead staggered over to the broken shell of a man who stared at him, astonished and upside down.

Though his vision swam, as much with tears as with the effects of his newly acquired wounds, Delita could clearly see something on Ramza's face that jolted him to his core…

…or, rather, it was what he _didn't_ see that so shook him.

There were few men he had wronged more than Ramza, possibly excepting those who were dead.

_Delita had chivvied Ramza into taking then-Princess Ovelia to Lionel, thus ensuring that Ramza would deliver the woman he'd sworn to protect into the hands of those who'd become his deadliest enemy._

_Delita, recognizing what a splendid decoy Ramza would make, had played a role in branding him as the heretic who'd killed Cardinal Draclau, ensuring that the former Beoulve would be hunted by church and state alike._

_Delita had knowingly allowed Orlandu to be relieved of his command on a false charge of treason, thus disgracing a man who was practically like Ramza's uncle and cutting off an avenue by which Ramza might've brought the war to a, comparatively, merciful conclusion._

_Delita had imprisoned Olan, and then blackmailed him into servitude, thus putting yet another of Ramza's few friends beyond his grasp._

_And then, to top it all off, Delita had made the unspoken price of Ramza's new name and home, not to mention help marrying off his unwed pregnant sister, be that Ramza keep all these abhorrent secrets so that the truth might die with the two men._

_Oh, Delita had helped Ramza…when it suited his purposes. Every other time, he had had no compunction against giving warnings he knew Ramza would ignore, dropping hints that would see Ramza charge into danger, and generally being ready to kill his old friend if it became necessary._

_So, why did Ramza's expression convey not anger or vengefulness, but instead concern and alarm?_

_He could not say, not the smallest reason being that his head was spinning and his vision going dark from the blows he'd unwittingly traded with the man who, above most if not all others, was within his rights to kill him. The last thing Delita felt before consciousness deserted him was the gentle warmth of healing magic mending the damage done to flesh and bone._

_And, the last thing he thought was that the true damage could not be mended by any incantation._

* * *

Delita's slumber was, thankfully, dreamless…

…though, when he saw Ramza hovering over him, the expected malice still absent from his features, he couldn't help but second guess whether he'd truly awoken.

Unable to answer his own question, and fearing just what the answer might be, Delita took stock of his surroundings. However, and whenever, his unwitting attack upon Ramza had ended, the Duke of Lionel had set Delita upon the most undamaged section of floor he could find and had been perusing the chamber's stores for bandages and medicine, some of which had been hastily arrayed nearby. Having noticed his patient stirring, Ramza had dropped a roll of bandages, which promptly unrolled itself as it travelled across the room, much to the duke's chagrin.

Delita, reminded of simpler and better times, had almost laughed.

How long ago it seemed, that the Duke of Lionel would run hither and yon, chasing dragonflies along the riverbank near what had once been their idyllic childhood home in Igros. Not that Ramza had ever actually caught any; the most he'd caught was a cold when he'd unwittingly strayed into the rocky shallows and ended up taking home a fair portion of the muddy riverbed.

Delita recalled how he'd teasingly voiced his anticipation of the lecture Ramza would receive for soiling his clothes, only for Ramza to throw several globules at him and proclaim that they were in this together.

"How confounding," he muttered under his breath. "The way things change, and yet stay the same."

"What was that?" Ramza asked, his casual tone belying just how far removed both men were from those simpler and better times.

"Nothing important," Delita replied, the irony of the words hitting him like a slap upon his mouth.

As he surveyed the devastation around him, Delita noticed that the spectral host had withdrawn a-ways. Though he could see no translucent faces leering at him in mute accusation, an eerie mist had gathered at the fringes of the room.

Watching, Waiting. Judging. He could not say which.

As for the revenant of Algus, he too had withdrawn, but yet remained in view. Perhaps Algus had recalled what had happened the last time he'd confronted both Delita and Ramza, the recollection leaving him less-than-enthused for another such confrontation. Regardless, the undead son of House Sandalfas presently leaned out from behind a scarred pillar, his shriveled eyes watching the scene before him with anxious incredulity.

Those eyes met Delita's, and he could not hold the stare. After all, the harm he and Algus had done to one another was readily matched by how Delita had betrayed Ramza time and again.

"How did you find me?" he asked, though more to distract himself than anything else. "These chambers _are_ a bit out of the way."

_And, in truth, that was no accident. Over the past few days, the roiling of his despairing thoughts and the profuseness with which his wounds of the spirit bled had become more and more difficult to conceal while in public._

_The voices of those he had professed to aid in his quest to overturn the old order of Ivalice and replace it with something better, most of whom he'd harmed as grievously, and as casually, as either of the warring dukes, had begun as a low, but insistent whispering between his ears._

_So too had the condemnation by those he had betrayed, more often than not to their deaths, as had the venom in Ramza's words when they'd met again after the war, and the fear on Ovelia's face when he saw just how his villainy had turned the woman he loved against him._

_In bright daylight, these voices were softened, and could be drowned out by the myriad concerns of ruling a kingdom limping its way free of the ashes of war. A duel with an aspirant Knight of the Chimera, an inspection of those cities and villages being rebuilt, or built, after the flames of war had guttered out, even the tedious meetings with his council could almost make him forget the voices were even there._

_Almost._

_He'd to bank these vengeful voices behind walls of will by daylight. But, at night, the cold, hard truth caused these walls to frost over._

_Then, slowly but surely, they began to crack._

_Mirage images of people – some he knew and others whose names were unknown but whose fates he could guess at – would slip into his vision, unheard words writhing upon ethereal snarling lips as they lurked upon the fringes of his sight. When his gaze darted in their direction however, they'd vanish, and he'd instead be greeted by the faces of several of the castle's inhabitants._

_And, all regarded him with deep perplexity and a no small amount of worry._

_Later, it grew worse._

_Some of those he'd betrayed most grievously, such as Baron Grimms and Duke Goltana, would lurk unseen at his shoulder, their condemnations growing louder until they threatened to drown out all other voices._

_Most tellingly, the voice of Confessor Zalmo, whom Delita had killed simply to preserve his cover and ensure his valuable decoy, Ramza, was not caught too soon, had railed so that Delita had entirely missed an economic forecast by his finance minister._

_Undoubtedly, those present had found it strange, and more than a bit worrisome, that the king had requested that the minister repeat himself several times for no obvious reason, as well as seem quite distressed and agitated while hearing that Ivalice's economy was growing healthily again._

_Soon, no longer confined to the dark hours where they could torment his restless, lonely nights, the specters made themselves known, by sight and by sound, whenever they wished. And, though Delita told himself, time and again, that those deaths had purchased a better future for those who yet lived and who would come after, his words could neither shore up his mental defenses nor still the ghosts whose lives he'd cut short._

_To forestall any discovery of his mental state, he had made himself increasingly busy and aloof, but this growing isolation fueled both the disquiet amongst his subjects and his own despair._

_And now, at the height of his folly and the depths of his anguish, here he was amidst the rubble and ashes of a chamber he had decimated while madly pursuing phantoms that no longer walked the mortal plane, being tended to by the one man who had more reason than most to kill him._

_He felt much like the ravaged warren looked._

_Damaged. Broken in battle._

_Stained with blood and darkness._

"I'd been trying to find you since the end of the first ball," Ramza spoke up, and perhaps not for the first time given that he'd likely been trying to talk Delita down during their bout. "When I was searching the ground floor, I could hear some sort of commotion from beneath me, but it took me a while to find a door leading in here. They _are_ pretty well hidden. When I finally got in here, I saw you lunging at me, and…and, I'm sorry."

"What do you have to feel sorry for?" Delita asked, more than hint of bitterness in his tone. "You were defending yourself against a deranged lunatic. I wouldn't have blamed you if you'd killed me."

Here, he paused and let out the bleak sort of laughter known to come over those standing at the gallows with the noose about their necks.

"Frankly, I would've preferred it."

Delita had known Ramza since both were small children in a seemingly distant time, and in an even more distant time where they'd lived innocently within Igros Castle. And, in all that time, and even after, he'd known Ramza to be a man of impossibly mild temper, overly demure in speech, slow to anger, and who assumed the role of aggressor only with the greatest reluctance…

…so, it came as something of a surprise when Ramza suddenly glared at Delita and barked "Don't say that!"

Delita's still swollen eyes bulged, as did Ramza's similarly bruised orbs, and the former Beoulve seemed so struck enough by his own vehemence that he tried to moderate the remainder of his words.

"Same old…Drake," Delita murmured, the sound of Ramza's pseudonym burning at the back of his throat. "Too soft-spoken and too much a diplomat for this hard, cruel world."

"What was that?" Ramza asked, almost as though Delita had unwittingly interrupted him.

Delita had been about to dismiss his idle ramblings as just that, but something stopped him. Perhaps it was how they were, in fact, the very opposite of idle ramblings. Or, maybe it was because, after seeing the full grave depth and terrible breadth of his deceit, he longed to at last be rid of his endless pretenses and vacillations.

Or, quite possibly, it was because he was sick at heart, alone, and afraid. And, he desperately wanted someone who could lend an ear to his sorrow.

Granted, of all people, he had the least right to expect either kind words or reassurance from Ramza, who he'd professed to love as a brother and yet betrayed again and again, but a rebuff would merely add but another drop of pain into a veritable ocean of agony.

To remain silent, by contrast, would mean certain madness.

"Ramza…What did you get?" he asked, finally voicing a question that had haunted him nearly as much as the weight of the dead.

"What do you mean?" Ramza asked, seemingly quite befuddled by the question.

"You seriously don't understand?" Delita eyed him with such incredulous disbelief that Ramza tensed under his gaze. "You left one of the most illustrious Houses in Ivalice, and the chance to command one of her finest knightly orders. And, for what? Because of Teta's death? Because you thought I was dead too?"

If the former Beoulve have been befuddled before, he now seemed quite gobsmacked. After a moment, however, he schooled his features back into an expression of calm and empathetic attentiveness.

"Wasn't that enough?" he asked after a long pause, the question grimly rhetorical. "I lost two people I loved dearly, and for what? The Corpse Brigade was already as good as beaten. And, even if they did escape, they would've just become another band of brigands on a list of hundreds."

"And yet, who could say how many innocents would've died if that had happened? Most brigands are just brutes who have all the tactical acumen of a drunken goblin. But, the Corpse Brigade? Veterans of war? Something else entirely, and much more dangerous. You never thought that one life was an acceptable trade to save hundreds of others?"

Why Delita was asking this, he could not say. Perhaps he wondered if Ramza might've discerned some path or alternative that they had overlooked on that fateful day. Maybe, as was the wont of the miserable, he wanted his anguish to infect others. Quite possibly, he was just going crazy.

Given that he'd spent the better part of an hour trying to kill a hallucination, and nearly killed someone he'd once called a friend instead, that last one seemed downright plausible.

Perhaps Ramza was contemplating that same question, or maybe he too was convalescing on that day his world and his place within it had, much like Fort Zeakden, vanished amidst smoke and thunder, for he was silent for a long moment. Ultimately, he heaved a heavy sigh and spoke.

"Is that what you told yourself?" Ramza asked. "That sacrificing a few innocents here and there could save the rest?"

Spying the revenant of Algus emerging partly from his hiding place and smiling cadaverously at this seeming vindication, Delita nodded sadly.

"Such an easy snare to stumble into," he remarked with an air of philosophical melancholy. "Even long after you step into it, you never realize it. Even after you're hoisted into the air, you can still look at the lives you did save and make merry of that silver lining. You dangle by your ankle, held in place, and all you can feel is the blood rushing to your head. An intoxicating thrill that delights until you realize the truth."

"And, what is the truth?" Ramza asked, the seemingly unanswerable question spoken in deeply serious tones.

After years spent building deceits upon deceits, of weaving plots within plots, and manipulating the very wheels of history into spinning in a direction of his choosing, one might've thought Delita as being incapable of even comprehending the question, let alone answering it. Yet now, laying broken before one he had wronged so supremely, a truth as bitter as the mingled blood and tears upon his lips sprang to mind quite readily.

"The truth is that I wish I'd died in Teta's place that day."

"I doubt you're alone in wishing that," the revenant of Algus intoned with a phlegm muffled chuckle. "After all, her memory would've been gone unspoiled if you hadn't lived long enough to drag it through the mud."

Feeble though it was, a spark of rage kindled in Delita's breastbone at these words and, even as the truth of them seared him anew, he tried to rise and dare one last attack against the hated ghoul that tormented him.

Maybe, just possibly, knocking enough teeth out of those receding gums would assuage his pain. And, even if it didn't, what did he have left to lose?

"Delita!" Ramza's voice rang out, cutting through the haze of grief that had descended over Delita's unbalanced mind and wounded spirit. "Algus isn't there! He's been killed! Twice!"

"Oh, I know that, and yet…," suddenly, Delita's eyes narrowed in perplexity. "Wait, what do you mean he was killed _twice_?"

"I encountered him in Limberry Castle when he was reanimated as a DeathKnight and…and, that's beside the point!"

Perhaps it was, but the claim about Algus having died more than once had, ironically, wrested Delita's attention away from the twice slain man's revenant, even as he spat phlegm and aspersions alike.

His wounds pointedly reminding him of their presence, Delita lowered himself back onto the floor, wincing at the aches and pains as he tried not to focus on those about his heart.

"You're not the only one who left Fort Zeakden with a bevvy of regrets," Ramza spoke up as he bound Delita's wounds. "I was so enchanted by my father's legacy, and so daunted, that it didn't occur to me that others who claimed to uphold it would debase it so. My inaction, my naiveté, signed Teta's death warrant as much as anything else that happened that day."

"You did more than most would've bothered," Delita pointed out. "I doubt many would've blamed you if you wrote off what happened as yet another tragedy in this sad kingdom and gone back home. At the least, I would think…Catherine would've been less lonely in her mourning."

"Maybe I should've gone back, if only to say a proper farewell. But, I would have never been able to stay. I couldn't face…well, any of it. Not the memories of you and Teta, not Alma after I'd let her down, and not knowing that what I'd grown up believing in was so badly rotted. So, I made a choice. I chose not to go home and to make my own way in the world. Maybe I was just running from my grief, or from my failures. But, I knew that, whatever I wanted to find, I'd never find it in Igros. I'd never find it in the lap of luxury, ignorant of the world beyond those castle gates."

A bitter laugh attempted to escape from Delita's lips at these words, though it became a ragged cough instead when his battered ribs protested the abuse. Though Ramza had likely meant nothing of the sort, his talk about his decision to leave his pampered and prestigious life in Igros in order to find solace in parts unknown sounded like some grand journey of self-discovery, of seeking to build a new life from the ashes of tragedy and betrayal. Some remnant of Delita's more fanciful side even voiced the opinion that such a journey sounded romantic…

…certainly more so than a journey in which the voyager gained a throne and a wife who believed him to have a heart of ice.

"And, even if I wanted to go back, what was there to go back to?" the former Beoulve went on. "It wouldn't have taken Dycedarg long to notice my disapproval of his methods, of how I thought his designs, and his justifications, worse than whatever they were created to oppose. I wanted to serve the people of Ivalice, not the warped ambitions of one man. I couldn't do that at Igros; sometimes I wasn't sure if I could do it anywhere at all. But, I knew that there was little for me there. Even if I'd stayed, it would've still haunted me, not just the tragedy of Teta's death, but how senseless it all was. The Corpse Brigade rose, and fell, because the crown failed to honor a pledge to its defenders, and then because the Brigade chose banditry over lifting the people and leading them to build something better out of their lives. I think I've learned enough to know that, at times, you have to do that which you'll come to regret, but such a betrayal is well beyond what I can abide. So, I took to the road, trying to find…a fresh start, or maybe answers."

"And, did you get your answers?"

The humorless laugh answered the question well before Ramza's head swiveled from side to side.

"So, what did you get?" he asked once more, a teasing smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Besides a roll in the hay with the prettiest Holy Knight in the Lionsguard, that is."

Something almost resembling amusement, maybe even delight, rippled briefly at Delita's heart when he saw Ramza blush and begin to splutter. But, after a time, he calmed himself and simply said "Family".

Though but a single word, small and commonly used in a thousand thousand connotations, Delita knew Ramza's "family" to be quite unique. A ragtag collection of men and women, most of whom looking more akin to boys and girls, who had been flung together by the misfortunes of war and yet who had banded together to survive, to aid those they could, and to persist against overwhelming odds. In so doing, these strangers from all corners of the realm and all walks of life, some of whom had once been enemies, had forged ties with one another, come to trust each other, and had found belonging, and even love, in a chaotic realm that would've considered their deaths to be a cause for celebration.

Strange though it was, even someone like Delita could see that such a family was one worth preserving, worth protecting, worth fighting for.

And, one worth envying.

It was also one that likely would remain beyond Delita's grasp, for though he was adored by the masses, they adored the illusion he'd made of himself.

As for those who knew him truly, those who were not dead were well aware of his true colors.

As though sensing his thoughts, Algus drew closer and, even with his teeth constantly raining upon the floor and growing back but heartbeats later, there was no mistaking the triumphant condescension in his grin.

"I'd been thinking often lately," Delita admitted. "About whether it would've been better if I'd joined your damn fool idealistic crusade when I had the chance."

"You had to protect Ovelia," Ramza pointed out, though he winced as he realized that bringing her up might not be wise.

"And, look how _that_ turned out. She got a full view of the man she married, and now she's terrified of me. I could see it in her eyes the last time we were together." The phrase "last time", and the double-meaning it conveyed, struck Delita harder than Ramza's fist had during their bout. "It was as though I could hear her asking herself when I'd decide that she was no longer useful, and that, when it happened, I'd kill her. And…and I _considered_ it!"

Expecting Ramza to recoil in horror – or better yet, to snatch up a sword and run him through – Delita found it worse when Ramza's expression was one of quiet sadness, as though the grief pouring out of Delita was one he presently shouldered.

As if they were still friends.

Such could not be, of course. Not after everything that had passed between them.

Algus seemed to sense this, for his smile, immaculate on one side and undead on the other, broadened to unnatural proportions.

Yet, strangely enough, Ramza regarded Delita with a curious blend of contemplation and concern, as though he were not seated before a monster on par with the Lucavi who'd terrorized Ivalice during the time of Saint Ajora.

 _Ramza, your naivete is truly the stuff of legends,_ Delita mused, idly wondering if Algus thought likewise.

But, Ramza's next words surprised both king and revenant alike.

"But, you didn't kill her. Why not?"

His brow furrowing, Delita pondered the question. A tangle of voices, some sibilant ones belonging to his Machiavellian inclinations, offered a bevvy of suggestions, all of which found counterparts in the vengeful voices of the dead. Yet, amidst the gloom was something far different. Something bright and warm, and removed, however slightly, from the muck and mire that Delita had unwittingly dived into.

It hadn't been part of the original plan for him to fall in love with Ovelia, but he had.

And, that had been enough to stop him from caving in her skull and making sure it was blamed on the veritable menagerie of pending accidents that she'd forested their chambers with.

Ramza, and Algus, seemed to sense his thoughts once more, for the latter's ghoulish face contorted with displeasure while the former gave a sliver of a nod.

Ramza had apparently seen something that he approved of, but Delita could not guess at what that might be.

"What, you think my loving Ovelia could balance the scales when there are hundreds – no, _thousands_! – of dead on the other side?"

"No," Ramza said flatly. "But, it's a start. And, it's far more than anyone else with designs on the throne had."

"It's easy enough to disparage Ruvelia, Larg, and Goltana. They've no power beyond the grave nowadays. I took…certain pains to make sure tongues were loosened about their…failings."

Indeed, Delita had, citing those three as examples of what Ivalice could afford no more of, even using his brief position as Goltana's foremost confidant – which he'd claimed availed him little when, in truth, he hadn't used it beyond easing the duke's neck onto the chopping block – to boost himself up as one who, as with all of Ivalice, was angered and saddened by the carnage and misery which had so nearly made ashes of the kingdom. Much like he'd unwittingly dragged Teta's name through the mud, he'd done so quite deliberately with Ruvelia, Larg, and Goltana's.

And, in truth, it wasn't that hard.

Even before their deaths, all three were reviled. Hated by the people who'd been ruinously taxed by those who so casually disregarded their duty to protect those whom they reportedly led, loathed by those whose kin were sent to die for the vain ambitions of pretenders to the throne, and despised for allowing the "distractions" of banditry, rebellion, and exploitation to go unchecked.

Yes, Delita had needed merely to "endorse" criticism of their hubris, even as it was nearly outstripped by his own, and it seemed but a twinkling of the eye before tongues wagged fiercely on the subject.

"And, what about Dycedarg? Have his "failings" been making the rounds?" Ramza asked, and Delita was perplexed by the question.

But then, perplexity gave way to understanding as a sudden flash of memory came back to him. He saw Rofel, idly flipping through a tome as he'd received Delita's report on his "willingness" to accept the Church's offer to mediate a peace, provided that they could convince the White Lion to do likewise.

He knew that was not possible, of course. Dycedarg and Zalbag, both slated to be assassinated along with the then-recently deceased Duke Larg, had survived and, even if neither recognized that they'd effectively be surrendering to the Church by accepting their offer, neither would've consented. Dycedarg was an ambitious and ruthless man, and more than a few believed it was his blade that had killed Larg, even if few were complaining about it. Such a man would not soon quit his quest for power, as Delita was uniquely aware. So, the supposed puppet had been ready to vacillate and match wits with Rofel when he'd surely object to the High Confessor's agent being less-than-compliant. But, to Delita's surprise, Rofel had seemed almost indifferent.

No less odd, when Rofel departed to see if he might get a better reception from Dycedarg, he'd left the book he'd been reading open on the table without bothering to return it to the shelf or even to close it.

So, naturally, Delita took a look and discovered an interesting chapter on a poisonous mushroom known as mossfungus…which bore a disturbing resemblance to a patch of mushrooms found growing on Balbanes's grave when the unlikely family had laid flowers there on the anniversary of his passing.

The implication was obvious enough, but the distinct scowl on Ramza's face gave confirmation.

"It's true, then?" he asked. "Dycedarg killed Balbanes?"

"Yes," Ramza said simply.

"Does Alma know?"

"She doesn't, and I think it's best if it stayed that way. Alma has more than enough on her mind as it is."

"Yes, I agree. How did you find out?"

"It was pure chance. Zalbag discovered it sometime beforehand, and had confronted Dycedarg just as I arrived."

"I take it that was how Zalbag died?"

There was a split second of hesitation before Ramza nodded, which caused the seed of questions – namely what Ramza was leaving out – to flower in Delita's mind, not the least of which being how Zalbag's body had reportedly been found in Murond rather than Igros. But, curiously, Ramza, who was clearly holding something back and typically wore his heart on his sleeve, was proving uncharacteristically difficult to read.

Whatever it was he chose to reveal, Delita suspected that much would be omitted. This came as something of a surprise, as Ramza knew well of Delita's involvement with the Church and their would-be attempt to subvert the monarchy, and so both men knew Delita to be privy to many of their secrets.

So, what secret, presumably unknown to Delita, did Ramza, apparently, discover decide to keep to himself?

Delita could not say, though he was fairly certain that Ramza had not chosen to do so for the sake of plausible deniability.

Perhaps sensing the course of Delita's thoughts, Ramza quickly changed the subject.

"I had a chance to talk to him, before the end," he said, gravely. "He was…in a bad way, and not just because he knew he wasn't going to live. He talked about how he regretted that he hadn't listened to me when I told him of Dycedarg's involvement in the plot against Ovelia. I also think he felt he should've realized sooner what had happened to…to father, maybe even realized it in time to have stopped it. He was just so…so tormented by his regrets."

Here, Ramza paused and brushed at his eyes. And, though Delita could still sense that much was left unsaid, the grief and regret in the former Beoulve's words was obvious and undiluted enough to still the questions blossoming in his mind.

"I think that was what, truly, convinced me that I was right not to go back to Igros," Ramza affirmed once he'd found his voice again. "Though I never truly wanted to, especially after learning about the assassination attempt, there were days I wondered if I could've done more from the inside to end the war. From time to time, I'd hear about how this faction or that wanted the same thing I did. Every once in a while, House Beoulve would say the same thing, offering to forgive all if I came back."

Again, Ramza paused, and a self-deprecating laugh parted his lips.

"I've never admitted this to anyone, but there were times when I wondered if, maybe, House Beoulve was in earnest and I was letting my past cloud my judgment," he said, and Delita was only too conscious of the weight of that admission. "Yes, Dycedarg had plotted to assassinate Ovelia and pin the deed on Goltana, but what if he'd done so under coercion, or having failed to foresee what his actions would lead to? Maybe, if I'd gone back, I might've accomplished more than being rebuked after presenting a theory to Zalbag that sounded ridiculous, even to me."

Ramza's boyish face, almost as emotive of that of a small child, had shifted through a number of expressions as he spoke. Flowing from self-deprecation to wistfulness, before contorting into thoughtfulness and then frustration. But, curiously, regret never once crossed his features, which ultimately took on a look of steely resolution.

"But, when I learned that Dycedarg had murdered father, that he had watched him sicken and die knowing full well why and yet did nothing to stop it, I was certain," Ramza finished. "Going back would've been pointless. How could I appeal to the conscience of a man who would poison his own father just to satisfy some warped ambition? And, when I saw how much it tortured Zalbag in just those few minutes, the regrets that came with following the orders of the same man who'd ignited the war and killed our father, I knew. Yes, I've made decisions I regret, some of which will pain me until I die. But that, I can live with. Ending up the same as Zalbag, being led by the nose by the same man who murdered our father and then end up so tormented by regrets that an untimely death was practically a mercy? No. My "damn fool idealistic crusade", as you called it, was the better path."

Delita had neither the words to argue the point, nor indeed the inclination. Though he knew many tidbits about how Ramza had lived following his decision to leave House Beoulve, to roam the land anonymously and to aid those he could and live his life as his own man, Delita knew well enough to know that such a life was not for the fainthearted. And, that was before he'd been stamped with the false charge of heresy and forced to live the life of a fugitive.

And yet, for all that, Ramza had gained far more than he'd lost.

He had found many friends, he had found a woman he loved, he had found the freedom to make up his own mind and act upon his own conscience rather than the ebb and flow of the ever-simmering cauldron of noble Houses scheming against each other.

In losing his name, Ramza had gained his freedom. In forfeiting his inheritance, he had become rich in friends and experience and wisdom. In abandoning his House, he had honored what it had once stood for, and he'd done so admirably.

And, all because he'd seized upon a seemingly mad notion purely because his conscience would not abide the alternative.

"That's wisely put," Delita opined, neither noticing nor caring how his envy colored his tone. "What I'd give to have taken such advice when I'd had the chance."

"You probably would've been a great help," Ramza admitted. "You always were the better warrior between us, and that was before you learned the Holy Sword arts. But, like I said, you had to protect Ovelia."

Delita winced as the wounds about his heart throbbed anew, and he hastily tried to inject some levity into this latest reminder of his follies.

"But, you'd probably had quite enough of sleeping with one eye open, I suspect?"

"You better believe it."

"Templars?"

"Agrias. Do you have any idea what happens when you take a powerful Holy Knight and give her pregnancy cravings? It's _terrifying_!"

Even before Ramza had elaborated, Delita could find this claim quite believable. Though becoming a mother and a wife, in that order, had softened a great deal of the Holy Knight's cold severity, Delita didn't doubt that Agrias still had her strong sword arm and her quick temper. He also didn't doubt that Ramza, too demure and too kindhearted for his harsh world, would've done everything he could to accommodate her after unwittingly getting her with his child.

And, sure enough, the details had Delita very nearly overpowered by the hilarity of it. Apparently, a recurring craving for the then-pregnant Holy Knight was an especially succulent peach that only grew on Murond. After, somehow, convincing Agrias just how unwise it was for him to be regularly sneaking into the very heart of the Church of Glabados at an ungodly hour (by which, he'd discovered that accidental puns could also prickle Agrias's temper), he'd managed to get her to settle for buying such peaches when they were exported to areas less hazardous. Such a time came just after, ironically, those events on Murond. Not long after those events which Ramza seemed so reluctant to disclose, the group had stopped in Dorter. A stand selling exotic fruits, including the sought-after peaches, had caught his eye. Unfortunately, it was manned by a merchant who, given how the prices of his goods had been driven upwards by their scarcity and the difficulty of acquiring them, seemed in a foul temper.

He'd briefly brightened when Ramza had offered to buy a respectable fraction of this expensive inventory, but his mood promptly soured again when Agrias, by then nine months along, grabbed the satchel of fruits and tore into them with a gusto that had several onlookers turning green…and, since this happened before the money had changed hands, the merchant's face had a fair bit of red to it as well.

Ramza, being Ramza, had paid the surly man his due, including a little extra by way of apology, but this hadn't stopped the thoroughly unpleasant man from muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "fat bitch".

Agrias, who was hardly in a carefree mood either, had promptly drawn her blade and some lightning induced property destruction had ensued.

That had both men laughing in spite of the copious bruises about their ribs, though the hilarity soon quieted and left behind a bleak, yawning silence. In an almost desperate attempt to fill it, Delita asked after Agrias, their old classmates from the Hokuten Academy, Alma, and baby Rachel. Ramza answered politely and concisely, though it almost seemed as though he were searching Delita's expression for something.

Signs of further treachery, perhaps?

Delita could hardly blame him.

But, when the Duke of Lionel spoke again, his words hit Delita like a pail of cold water.

"Do you really think you're as far gone as you say? Because I don't."

Had Ramza produced a magical stone that could turn men into demons of the same fell breed as the Lucavi, Delita would've been less astonished.

"…what?" he asked, shock nearly choking away his voice, while the revenant of Algus seemed similarly befuddled.

For some time, Delita could only regard Ramza in stupefaction. Granted, he knew the Ramza who'd walked away from the fires of Fort Zeakden was very nearly as naïve as the boy who'd unwittingly walked into them. Nearly, but not quite, for the Ramza who'd shed the raiment of the Hokuten and of House Beoulve had been tempered by battle and by hardship, had reconciled himself to the grim reality that it was not possible to take up blade or cause without the promise of regret, and that that mote of light reportedly within all human souls could, in fact, be snuffed out.

Yet, that never stopped him from trying to uphold the honor to which few even gave mere lip service, nor to do all he could to coax that mote into true radiance. And, despite the Duke of Lionel possessing the naïveté that lingered in such copiousness that he'd firmly believed he could prevail against the might of the corrupted lions and the tainted church, Delita was firmly convinced that Ramza was no idiot.

So, why had he affirmed a claim so utterly mystifying, and when he had seen all the evidence to the contrary before his eyes?

Delita's eyes strayed to Algus, who seemed to regain his equilibrium and now appeared quite delighted by these doubts, but the trance was broken when Ramza snatched his chin and their gazes met.

"Oh, believe me, you've done a lot I cannot condone," Ramza said bluntly. "But I'm hardly in a position to begrudge someone for having regrets. I have quite a few myself. I've killed many I wish I hadn't. Maybe there was some alternative I missed, or maybe there wasn't. Still, there have been times when I felt every bit as wretched a soul as the church claimed."

Here, Ramza paused, his eyes going distant and glassy as if beholding something only he could see and which brought him profound anguish.

"Aside from the Corpse Brigadiers, there were the bandits in Gariland and Dorter, the Baert Company mercenaries in Zaland and Goug, the Gryphon Knights in Lionel, the thieves in Gollund, the Wyvern knights in Yardow and Riovanes, the Nanten at Dugeura Pass and Fort Besselat, the Hokuten in Igros. Even those Nanten deserters at the Grogh Heights who'd figured my head would buy them a chance to go home to their families. It all seemed so…so needless. The bandits and thieves, whatever else they'd done, had had no part in triggering the War of the Lions or manipulating the outcome. The knights were protecting their lieges, not aware of how much blood was on their hands. Those deserters only wanted to go home and sought my blood out of desperation rather than malice. Again and again, I wondered if there was some way to have avoided all that killing, if there was some way to have avoided those battles, or talked my way past them. But, in the end, it dawned on me that there wasn't. Either there was no way, or there was no time. But, that didn't change the fact that all those people are dead, and that I failed to help them just as surely as I'd failed Teta."

Perhaps some lingering fraternal instinct was the cause, or maybe Delita had been jolted from his own morass of misery by Ramza's self-recriminations. Or, maybe both of them were a bit unhinged after all they'd been through.

 _Smart money's probably on option number three,_ Delita mused sourly.

Whatever the reason, and despite his entire body feeling like one enormous and ill-tended bruise, he rose to a sitting position and clapped a hand on Ramza's shoulder.

"How many of them would've killed you and not lost a wink of sleep over it?" he asked, though the answer was once more a mere formality. "Besides, you killed a several dozen, maybe a hundred or so, in self-defense. I have the blood of thousands, maybe tens of thousands, on my hands. Some I killed deliberately, and often when they had no chance of fighting back, and most I simply let fall by the wayside. It's doubtful you had an alternative, but I did."

"Did you? Could you have talked Goltana into offering terms to Larg?" Ramza asked pointedly. "Orlandu tried and failed, and he had over twenty years of loyal service to use as leverage."

"He might've gotten through to Goltana if I hadn't helped frame Orlandu for treason."

"Marcel was a lot of things, but he wasn't foolish. He must've had contingencies in place in case you didn't follow along with his scheme. Besides, I might not have saved Orlandu at all if you hadn't warned me about the plot to assassinate him, or been able to stop the Battle of Fort Besselat if you hadn't told me it was going to happen. Why would you have given out information that could save all those lives, including quite a few who were your enemies, if you were truly so corrupted?"

Delita had been about to say that such had been still another plot within yet another plot, which was true, but something still the words before they could pass his lips. Somehow, from some depth of himself which he could neither name nor explain, a flicker of rage crackled in Delita's being. Perhaps, in some pique of masochism, he longed for flagellation rather than absolution. Maybe he found himself thinking that Ramza was speaking too dismissively of the dead and of Delita's role in their deaths while trying to manufacture some act of conscience which Ramza, not Delita, had carried out. And, he still wasn't discounting the possibility that they'd both lost their minds.

But, the spark of rage wavered when he recalled that, naïve and reckless Ramza might be, he was neither cold-blooded nor callous. How could such be true when, by all accounts, Ramza had spent a huge portion of the war hazarding himself for the sake of others, some of whom had once been his enemies, going out of his way again and again to help strangers in peril?

No, there was a reason that he, of all people, had stopped Delita from hurling himself off that balcony and had not impaled him during his deranged assault.

 _Knowing Ramza, it'll be something cliché and painfully idealistic,_ Delita predicted, bitterly amused at the notion.

Ramza seemed to sense Delita's train of thought, for he clapped a hand on the king's shoulder and gave a firm squeeze.

"And, as for you not being as far gone as you think? I can feel it in my heart," Ramza affirmed.

 _Wow, I think I understated the case a little,_ Delita decided, inwardly grimacing at not only the sentiment but how Ramza's sentimental streak, his willingness to give the benefit of the doubt to even the most wretched, was thoroughly wasted on the bloody handed king.

"After all, it's still beating," Ramza went on, jolting Delita back to attention.

"Eh, what?" the king asked, flummoxed.

"Think about it. You'd barely had the crown on your head and the first thing you did was take the time to track me down. I genuinely expected that you wanted my head, and so did the others. I half expected that I'd have to give myself up to ensure they could leave safely. But, instead, you gave me and Alma new identities, a new home, and a chance to live normal lives. Why? You had a lot to lose and, as far as I can tell, nothing to gain by it. Especially if the church sniffs out who I really am, which is possible since we both know they're still looking for me. And, that's leaving aside how much I know about you, and how that could be used against you. So, why take the risk? Oh, you could've done it because you knew it was what Teta and Ovelia would've wanted, but there's more to it than that, isn't there?"

Delita had felt his lower jaw begin to droop earthwards as Ramza had spoken. Far from naïve or cliché, his words displayed a startlingly keen insight. Granted, Delita had more than once found himself thinking that he'd wanted Ramza effectively under house arrest both to secure his silence and as a final stroke in their unspoken contest about which of them had been in the right in their disparate endeavors to save Ivalice. After all, he'd been engaged in no small amount of self-flagellation over the subject, loathing himself for, albeit unspokenly, blackmailing Ramza into keeping the king's secrets in exchange for help marrying off Alma before she was discovered as being pregnant out of wedlock.

And, if he was being uncharacteristically honest, Delita would admit that the notion had taken root in his mind quickly enough. Especially given that, unless proof of death came to light, the church would never cease hunting for Ramza…and, therefore, could not devote themselves fully to keeping their supposed catspaw on their leash. But, there had been something else.

What is was, he could not name…or, more likely, he'd simply forgotten how. But, all he knew for sure was that he'd deduced that Ramza would try to escape to foreign shores to live out his life in exile, and Delita didn't want him to leave. Didn't want him to _have_ to leave.

Some sort of chasm had opened within the core of his being once he'd deduced Ramza's intent to flee, and it was soon followed by the sense that, if nature was left to run its course, then that chasm would soon fill with the regret that would leech away the warmth of life as surely as did the grave.

And so, he'd taken a calculated, but still sizable, risk, to secure a new identity for a man he'd threatened to kill, and nearly killed by proxy several times, all because…he'd known he'd miss his old friend?

Even to his own ears, that sounded ridiculous, but it was all he could come up with. Though Delita had done much that even he considered deplorable, letting Ramza live as an exile in parts unknown and far from the land he'd fought and bled to save was more than even he could stomach.

Could some scrap of chivalry, of brotherhood, of love for his family in all but blood, have urged him to take that gamble in order to help the closest thing he had to kin, not only out of respect for the wishes of Ovelia and the late Teta, but because he'd wanted to give proper honors to the man who'd done even more than he to save Ivalice, and who he loved as a brother?

Maybe, but that fell far short of wiping away the veritable ocean of blood he could still feel upon his hands.

"Me saving your life, if I did even that much, does nothing for the lives I've taken," he pointed out morosely, already sensing Algus's cadaverous grin at these words.

"Oh? Well, what about the lives you've saved?" Ramza asked. "How about the lives that are better now than they were before the war?"

Undoubtedly, Ramza was referring to how, through his support of the burgeoning print trade and imminent literacy explosion, of the education of the masses so that they might rise above their meager births as Balbanes had done for Delita so long ago, not to mention the economic initiatives he'd set in motion by mediating negotiations between those not only on opposite sides of the war but those on opposite sides of the class divide, which saw Ivalice lurching its way towards a future where one's birth was no longer one's fate. But, Delita was no longer impressed by this grand accomplishment.

After all, from the first, it had been designed to marginalize the nobility who he'd held collectively responsible for Teta's death. He'd sought to make them dependent upon his will and good graces, with the only alternative being destitution. Granted, he could've simply confiscated their lands and wealth and then sent them to the gallows, especially those who'd supported Larg during the war, but he'd found it such a delightful irony to keep them around and exploit them instead. So, he'd watched as they ambled about in a maze of his own design until they either choked down their pride…or choked on it.

All he'd really done was stroke his own ego and glut his sadism, and he'd lost little time telling Ramza this.

Delita probably shouldn't have been surprised, but was, when Ramza was neither convinced nor deterred.

"Ah, so it's all just playacting, then?" Ramza asked, with palpable sarcasm. "Those refugees who felt contrite enough to work for the people they'd robbed, and just for bed and board? Those shopkeepers and merchants who found it in themselves to forgive, and even hire those refugees? Those nobles who agreed to partner with peasants, offering to outright sell their land for farming and mining so that Ivalice's economy can get back on its feet? Those teachers who are helping lower class children learn how to read, for the first time since _anyone_ can remember? Those soldiers and knights who'd fought on opposite sides of the war, and who've come back together to make sure the country they fought for stays in one piece? Is it all just pageantry, then?"

Delita had been more than a bit startled to hear sarcasm out of the typically demure Ramza, but that surprise quickly became a mingling of perplexity and incredulity when he considered his old friend's words at greater length. Incredulity at how these agents in Ivalice's rebirth, many of whom would've impressed the righteous Balbanes and Orlandu, could be likened to such a mass of wretched duplicities and treacheries such as Delita, and then perplexity at what Ramza was getting at.

A bit too concussed to gather in the entirety of the riddle, not to mention his wits being askew all the more from Ramza's sarcasm, Delita pondered.

And, though his skull didn't appreciate having to think so copiously while nursing several concussions, answers came readily enough. One of the essential skills of a master manipulator and a deft liar was the ability to tell when others were being truthful, and when they were not. And, although many weren't nearly the open book that Ramza was, even the cagey sorts had tells and haptics that could unmask and undermine otherwise well-hidden deceits. Yet, as Delita looked back on those he'd dealt with as he'd cemented his early reign, he found these to be few.

_He remembered Rolf, a pious refugee from Zeltennia who, like more than a few of those who'd been displaced by the drought, had had to violate more than a few tenants of his faith in order to avoid starvation. Yet, like many of the onetime refugees, he'd rediscovered contrition, and the courage to seek forgiveness, once his conscience was no longer drowned out by his rumbling stomach._

_He remembered Penelope, or "Bunty" to her friends, who, like more than a few middle-class Lesalians, had learned a trade and built her own business, only to lose it when desperation drove the refugee hordes to smash her windows and loot her shop. But, once the dust had settled, she'd been eager, even enthusiastic, to build her business anew and, when several of the people who'd wronged her arrived, contrite and wishing to help, she'd but smiled and said "let's get to work"._

_He remembered Baron Smoit, a heavy-set nobleman from Gallione with a fondness for strong drink, boisterous laughter, and clapping people on the back until they could barely keep their feet. Despite his appearance, and his disconcerting bombast, he was a pragmatic and sharp-witted man, who had been quick to decide that aristocratic pride would prove little defense against bankruptcy, nor would it coax put food on tables or coin in the till. And so, he'd been quick to partner with Aeddan, an unofficial leader of Gallione's farming community, and Hevydd, a legend amongst miners and metalsmiths, and the three had used their connections to organize an effort to rebuild Gallione's economy, which was hard hit by war and flooding. Though all three men likely would've regarded such an alliance as an aberration but a few months prior, Delita knew the unlikely team to be amongst the most successful in the new Ivalice._

_He remembered Jeanne, a well-read Lionel woman who'd been amongst the first to sign on with the now burgeoning schools which catered to children of humble birth. With the advent of the printing press, and how books had gone from costing a week's salary to costing a bit of pocket change, the prospects of Ivalice's future generations, once few and narrow, had become many and broad. And, the sudden surge of literacy had likely played a greater role in this phenomenon than anything Delita had done. Now, children once consigned to being farmers or miners simply because their forefathers had been, regardless of who liked it and who didn't, now had a myriad of choices for how they wanted to make their way in the world. And, even those who genuinely wanted to keep the trades of their forbearers were eager to learn, so that they might not merely go through generations old motions, but to learn the workings of soil, stone, and metal so that knowledge might allow success and prosperity where there'd once been merely anonymous drudgery. Delita remembered how more than a few of these children had written letters of gratitude to him and Ovelia and how, even though their spelling left something to be desired, they'd been heartened by the happily scrawled missives._

_He remembered Dame Joyce, a Lionsguard knight from Lesalia, and Dame Birgitta, an Aegis Knight from Zeltennia. Like many of Ivalice's defenders, these veterans had fought alongside each other during the Fifty Years War, and had become good friends as they'd battled shoulder to shoulder against Ordalia. And, like more than a few of Ivalice's defenders, they'd found that the nightmare of war coming upon them again was made all the more heinous when the feud over the crown also put onetime brothers and sister-in-arms on opposite sides. Though many of the particulars were not known to Delita, he could guess at most when, following his release of the war's prisoners from the overflowing dungeons, Joyce and Birgitta had promptly sought each other out and, upon finding one another, had wept joyful tears as though they'd found again a sister long feared dead._

_No, there had been no pageantry or schemes or duplicity in those stories, nor the hundreds of thousands of others like them. In each and all had been an uncharacteristic abundance of what had, customarily, been Ivalice's scarcest commodity._

_Truth._

_Somehow, recalling these moments, these truths, assuaged Delita's wounds. They did not take away the pain – if anything, it felt more acute than before – but it was almost as though, rather than clouding his mind, what he felt was slowly but surely jolting him to lucidity._

_Yes, he had orchestrated these reconciliations, these partnerships, these reunions, and these healings._

_But, he'd done so not out of love for his fellow Ivalicians, but contempt for those he'd blamed for his misfortunes. He hadn't done so to bridge the divide between those of humble and noble birth, but because he'd wanted the latter to be marginalized, humiliated, and brought low. He hadn't sponsored the education of the lower classes to give them a better future, nor had he brought back together Ivalice's defenders to mend old friendships as surely as to mend the kingdom, but to stroke his own ego and stamp his reign with an authority and legitimacy as to still the tongues of any who'd oppose him._

_What the Ivalician people gave prayers of thanksgiving for, he had done out of vanity, selfishness, a lust for revenge, and a keenness to wrong and ruin those who'd wronged him…_

… _so, why was one he had wronged more than most, and whose former life he'd ruined with nary an ounce of compunction, sitting patiently alongside him, wearing an expression of concern rather than vengefulness? No less mystifying, why had he heard words of concern rather than condemnation from his onetime friend?_

_Why did he feel that Ramza had come not to lay low his betrayer, but to bear him up?_

_Perhaps the revenant of Algus had unraveled this peculiar riddle, for his cadaverous mouth contorted in a feral snarl, sending globules of blood and phlegm spraying the air. Yet, this macabre spectacle that personified all that Delita had done to defile his life was momentarily overshadowed when Ramza interposed himself between the gazes of the two nemeses._

"No," Delita said at last. "There was no pageantry in any of that. I may have set the stage, but I handed out no scripts."

For some reason, Ramza seemed to approve of this, though the why of it yet eluded Delita's once keen and fleetfooted mind. What did it matter if the stories had been real, for the tales of those who'd died were no less real than those who'd lived, and were more numerous. And, how could these stories of their brighter futures redress the road leading to it, which Delita had paved with corpses and mortared with innocent blood?

What did it matter?

When the question finally forced its way free of Delita's lips, however, Ramza was quick to say that it mattered a great deal.

"Does that surprise you?" he asked frankly, and Delita could only nod in surprise. "It shouldn't. After all, you were the one who seemed to think it mattered so much that I tried to help you save Teta, even though we failed."

"It did matter," Delita affirmed, surprising himself with his vehemence. "You, Alma, and Balbanes were probably the only people who've ever spoken for Teta. No one else had done that, ever. And…whatever else Teta's death may have been, it wasn't your fault."

Delita recalled, with bitter clarity, a time when he'd felt differently. Just after the terrible thunk of the crossbow quarrel piercing Teta's breast, still heady with horror and rage, he had vowed that, once Algus had joined his victim, then Ramza would share that same fate. Yet, even before the battle had ended, those enraged words had drifted away on the icy winds, borne away by realization that was every bit as cold.

Ramza had not been at fault, nor had he ever been.

Not unlike the ignominious brand of heresy, Delita's condemning words had fallen upon the former Beoulve's shoulders wrongly. Whether the words were sparked by the flames of his grief, or as an unwitting precursor to his life spent achieving calculated gains, of playing on the heartstrings of others as a bard plays upon a harp, Delita knew only that fresh revulsion welled in him at the recollection.

Yet, rather than being angered at Delita's outburst from that distant, terrible day, Ramza had been angered at himself. Angered over something that, even without hindsight's characteristically useless insights, could not, and should not, have been laid upon his shoulders.

Especially when he'd been very nearly alone in caring whether Teta lived or died, and hazarded his own life trying to save hers.

The words came awkwardly and haltingly when Delita tried to voice them, but voice them he did. And, much to his surprise, the Duke of Lionel seemed genuinely touched by…by what, precisely?

The admission that Delita had been wrong, and his words of contrition? His appreciation for Ramza's efforts, in spite of their mutual failure to avert tragedy?

Somehow, the word "forgiveness" sprang to mind.

It seemed absurd, for what happened had been beyond Ramza's control. And yet, the notion tickled and nagged and refused to go away until he finally gave it free rein.

And, to compound one absurdity with another, Ramza seemed almost happy to have been forgiven, as if some old wound that yet bled had finally begun to scab over.

Healing remained a distant prospect, perhaps, but something in those unlikely words had caused it to become attainable.

And, as though assuaging that wound had lent him strength, Ramza had been characteristically eager to reciprocate.

"It doesn't have to stay that way, you know," he began. "Your talk about how so much of what you've done was out of your own lust for revenge. And, honestly, I can see what you mean. But, I've also been in touch with my other companions, learning about just what was done. Whatever else you've done, and why, a lot of people have better lives ahead of them because of it. Those children learning how to read, those prisoners of war you allowed to go home to their families, those laws you passed to help end the years of poverty and starvation? Yes, they were done for the wrong reasons, but I can't turn a blind eye to the good that was achieved."

"So, what? It doesn't matter why it was done, what was going through my head? It doesn't matter that my motives were as base and selfish as Algus's?"

"Oh, it matters a lot. But, motivations can change. People can change. _You_ can change." Seeing Delita's skepticism, Ramza met his old friend's gaze unflinchingly. "Think about it. If you really were so far gone as you think, why would any of what you've done even bother you? Why would you have helped me and my friends when you could've trussed us up to use as a bargaining chip against the church? Why would you have fallen in love with Ovelia, let alone regret how things stand between you two? If you were as vile and wicked as you claim, why would you feel so guilty that you'd want to die?"

Perhaps too weary and battered to vacillate, and too sick at heart for further deceptions, Delita considered Ramza's words. That his old friend had faith in those who'd gone astray was hardly surprising, but this display truly outstripped even Delita's most unlikely speculations.

"Teta has been dead for some time now, along with man who killed her," Ramza continued. "You wanted revenge on those who you blamed for it? Well, if you truly don't blame me, then I guess that means they're all gone. Now, it's time for both of us to move on. And, it's not just about what Teta would've wanted, if she were still here, but about the people above us right now. The people who have a bright future ahead of them, the people who lost everything during the wars and now have a chance to start over, the people who believe in you for making that happen…and, who are worried about you. Yes, you owe a debt to the dead, but they can wait to collect. You owe a different kind of debt to the people of Ivalice, and theirs is the better claim."

A sad smile crossed Ramza's lips as he finished.

"I think that, if Teta and father were here now, they'd say the same."

The reminder of his sister, and how horror-stricken she'd likely have been upon seeing what he'd done with, and to, her memory made Delita's eyes prickle, but the sensation passed as he wondered, truly wondered, if Ramza might be right.

He'd paved a long road to Hell, first with his good intentions and then his hubris, but what if he'd not reached the end after all? What if the tarnish upon his kingship, seen by so few and yet so malignant nonetheless, could yet be expunged? What if he could, truly, rectify the atrocities he'd committed and make that better future for Ivalice a reality rather than a convenient mask for his pride and vengefulness?

His gaze met Ramza's as the other man rose to his feet, seeing that the Duke of Lionel was much different than the youngest son of House Beoulve, and yet not. He was still soft-hearted, eager to see the good in most, keen to lend aid even when it could not profit him.

And, much to his surprise, he was still Delita's friend. No less bewildering, even though Ramza did not say it explicitly, his earlier words of faith and the brotherly love upon his face made it clear.

Delita should've been everything Ramza despised. A murderer, a liar, a manipulator, a man who would exploit the pride of the prideful and the timidity of the timid to achieve his ends, and who'd cared not for who was left broken and bleeding along the way.

And yet, for all that, and for all Delita had done to Ramza, costing him home and name…

…Ramza had forgiven him.

Not with the naivete of youth, but after seeing what good Delita had, almost unwittingly, done and deciding that, for all the much and mire that it had emerged from, it was a work worth completing.

Finishing that work, of making Ivalice a place where those of high and lowly birth alike might find happiness, would not vindicate the falsely condemned Ramza nor absolve Delita of his many sins. But, something more than the accounting he, like all men, must give after their final breath, suddenly weighed upon his mind. It was a realization that was every bit as heavy as the more than a dozen pounds of gold and jewels that made up his crown.

If the work of making Ivalice a better kingdom did not succeed, then all those deaths would have been for nothing, as would all that hard work and those aspirations he recalled earlier.

And that, much like Ramza having to live the life of an exile away from the kingdom he'd fought to save, was more than even Delita's askew mental compass could abide. It was enough to grant him lucidity at last, to steady his shoulders and to nerve his arm.

"Come on," Ramza said, holding out one hand. "We both set out to save Ivalice, and there's a lot to be done before we're finished. Let's get to work."

Delita wrapped trembling fingers about the proffered hand and, with a strong tug, the Duke of Lionel pulled him onto his feet. The chamber lurched about him for a moment, walls and floor shuffling like a deck of cards in a gambling warren. Yet, eventually, the world steadied, along with Delita's mind.

Yes, he was far from the angelic monarch many believed him to be, but he could still do right by his people.

Maybe that would be enough to bring solace to those he'd killed and win their pardon, or maybe it wouldn't. For now, it would have to be enough.

The revenant of Algus continued to defiantly spew vitriol, not all of which Delita could refute, but the words no longer had the power to unman him.

Offering a grateful nod to Ramza, he turned to leave the decimated warren when the Duke of Lionel suddenly called out to him.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" he asked, pointing at a section of stone that had been uprooted from the floor to form a mound just over waist high. Embedded in it was a sword, likely the same one that Deltia had snatched up amidst his derangement. Delita had half expected to behold one of the dreaded fell swords favored by Dark Knights, perhaps a Deathbringer which brought the chill of the grave to those who killed in the name of truth and justice.

Appropriate for both the killer and the victim, in the case of what had nearly happened in this ruined warren.

It wasn't a Deathbringer. Indeed, it wasn't even a fell sword.

When he saw what his hands had chanced upon during that madness, his lower jaw dropped.


	28. Interlude 4, Part 1: To Be Judged, To Be Absolved

Gleaming in the sparse light of the chamber, and seeming to offer illumination enough to drive back the thick shadows, was a blade famous from Riovanes to Warjilis, from Igros to Sar Ghidos, and everywhere in between, and which had been the subject of campfire tales, bard songs, and the works of warrior poets since before either Ramza or Delita drew their first breath.

Excalibur.

For a long moment, Delita could only stare, flabbergasted at this latest irony that the capricious fates had seen fit to weave. He had assumed that Excalibur, reputed to be a legendary knight's sword which could only be wielded by a true heir to the throne, had vanished along with its owner, the famed Thunder God Cid, when he'd taken his leave of the war-torn kingdom to spend what days remained to him in peace. It would surely be foolish of him to have the sword sent back to Ivalice, where nary a glance might be enough to know its name and raise questions about its sender, who'd surely wished to remain anonymous in his declining days.

And yet, how could one mistake the winding plume of orange flame that danced over the blade, the tendril of black ivy which the flames licked, the quillions like the rays of the sun, or the smiling visage of a nameless god of war upon the cross-guard?

And, more than that, Delita's own recollections argued that this was no counterfeit.

Once again, Delita's mind wandered back to distant times, and even more distant innocence. He recalled how, during one of Orlandu's visits to Igros many years ago, he and Ramza had chanced upon the blade of Thunder God Cid. At five years of age, neither boy had, or could have, truly understood the grave weight of memory and duty that came with wielding any blade, let alone the finest in the realm. To them, it had been an element from childhood tales, come to life by some unknown whimsy of fate, to delight the two boys as they wielded it to vanquish imagined foes…

…well, they would have if they could've lifted it.

Longer than they were tall, and much heavier than the wooden blades of their customary derring-do, it took every ounce of their young muscles just to get it off the floor, and then by mere inches. Yet, manage it they did, and familiar as any of many winters or of few with the sword's legend, they'd promptly decided that a sword of kings finding two worthies was a matter that could only be decided through battle.

Their battle came to a rather anticlimactic end, however, when Balbanes and Orlandu, having heard the clatter of their previous attempts to lift the blade, had charged in and snatched it away with galling ease. Balbanes's rebuke had been more than enough to leave the two boys in tears, but Orlandu had been amused, and very nearly impressed at their shenanigans.

"There's far more to wielding a sword than knowing when to thrust and when to parry," he had said. "But, I have faith you'll learn it. Learn well from your father, for you'll find no better teacher, and I hope I'm there to see your success."

* * *

 

He'd said it so causally that even one older might not guess that he'd soon journey to the front lines of the Fifty Years War, from which few returned. No, both boys were awed by the idea that they might one day grow up and wield such a fabulous blade.

 _My, how the times of have changed,_ Delita mused sadly, all too aware of just how much else there was to wielding a sword…and how he'd misused those that had come to his hand over the past few years.

How the sword had been sent back to Ivalice, without anyone tipping to Orlandu still being alive, he could not guess. Yet, apparently, this blade had arrived and been hidden in this last bastion of the crown. As bizarre as that was, that it had found Delita's hand when he was trying to hack his way through the revenant of Algus, and then Ramza, was more mystifying still.

Yet, whether unconsciously or out of some remnant of childhood wonderment, he found his hand reaching out to grasp the sword's hilt and…

…and, what?

His hand froze in midair, and he regarded the blade with some trepidation. Yes, the sword was reportedly the blade of the king, but he had some ways to go before he could even conceive of his worthiness to wield it.

And, the day where Ivalice was worthy of having such a magnificent weapon amongst her defenses was also a long time off.

Yet, surely such a blade should not be left in such an inglorious resting place. Perhaps it should be returned to its rightful owner, so that he might be able to defend himself if malicious visitors came knocking?

But, then again, had Orlandu arranged for it to come here because he considered the people of Ivalice, as flawed and petty as they were, to be the blade's rightful owners?

Perhaps. Though far more practical and world wise than the naïve Ramza, the loyalties of the Swordsaint and the Duke of Lionel aligned quite perfectly.

Again, the trembling hand came up. As it did, the crowd of specters from earlier, who'd acted as a veiled audience during Ramza's intervention, as they suddenly rippled into being around him like fog rising from the cobblestones.

Delita's mouth went dry when he saw Teta amongst their number.

Perhaps the revenant of Algus had seen her as well, for his aspersions had grown viler, and came more swiftly, mocking him for even thinking he could wield a sword of kings and reminding him, in sickening detail, just how he'd dishonored Teta's memory with the blood he'd shed in her name.

Yet, through it all, Teta showed no sign of sharing the sentiment, nor did she echo his condemnations.

Indeed, she was as silent as…well, as silent as the grave.

And, though there was so much Delita wanted to say to her – to beg her forgiveness, to forswear his Machiavellian proclivities, to swear he would help Ramza and Alma in their hour of need with no thought to calculated gain – he was no less mute as the words became lodged in his throat.

Yet still, there was no rebuke. Instead, she gave him a small, sad smile, as though sorry she could not have aided him in this dark hour. Then, her gaze drifted to the sword and back to Delita before she gave an approving nod.

Ramza's hand clapping on his shoulder echoed this small sign of approval.

The implication was obvious, and yet it left Delita's mind awhirl.

If Ramza holding no malice towards him had left him stunned, Teta apparently forgiving him as well had left him truly thunderstruck.

How this could be, Delita could barely even guess at. And yet, with the balm of Ramza's absolution to shore up his once frayed mind, he could see that his eyes had not cheated him…

…beyond showing him a room full of dead people, that is.

If he had forgotten who Teta had been during the past few years, seeing her ethereal form had reminded him.

She had been the unheard voice whose letters had steeled his will to prevail at the Hokuten Academy, where his excellence was as unwelcome as his lowly birth.

She had been the warmth that greeted him when he returned to Igros, making the castle that could never truly be home seem truly welcoming nonetheless.

She had been the brave soul who had given her life, even as she herself lay bleeding out her last moments, when Fort Zeakden's fiery destruction drew near.

The last of his blood kin, and who had always put others, him in particular, before herself. The adoring little sister who had been near to bursting with pride at the news that her brother had graduated with honors from the Academy, his instructors pinching their noses shut through every minute of it. The woman who'd cut short her own life to save her kin, blissfully unaware that she was saving the life of a monster…

…she seemed to catch his thought, for she raised an admonishing finger and then directed his gaze to Excalibur's blade, which yet retained an almost mirror-like sheen despite the clouds of dust created by his maddened assault.

Gulping audibly, Delita gazed upon the monster in the mirror.

What he saw was very different.

He did not see what the Ivalician people saw, the fairy-tale prince sprung from the pages to set right a floundering realm.

And yet, nor did he see the perverted mockery of a man whose villainy had outshone the callous vainglory of Ruvelia, Larg, Goltana, and Marcel before him.

He saw, simply, a man.

Shoulders slumped, head bowed, eyes rimmed with redness and shadows.

Bloodied, bruised, his face scarred by battles recent and distant, wounds outward and inward that yet bled.

The green orbs, however, proved the most telling.

In those green orbs, he could see many things. Follies, cruelties, perverted ambitions, and tainted pride. He could see them all, and that they had all fallen away.

In their place, he saw a man, wearied and sick at heart. Flagellated by his own thoughts, his own words, and, at times, his own hand. A man who now felt the weight of his crown, and the weight of his regrets with it, as though the brightness of its gold and the luster of its jewels sought to crush the skull it sat upon as much as to dazzle any onlookers.

He saw a man who had been battered and trampled by his own wrongdoings, and yet he saw a glimmer of something else.

Some mote of light, kindled by Ramza and Teta, that yet persisted amidst the gloom. One remnant of himself that, even now and in spite of everything, yet longed for what he had sought and lost track of along his bloody journey.

A world where Teta's tragedy would not be repeated.

Yes, he had dragged that vision through the mud. Yes, he had despoiled Teta's memory by condemning people like her to death while waiting for those who would, posthumously, shoulder the blame to dig themselves a deep enough grave. Yes, he had betrayed the man whom he'd professed to love as a brother time and again.

Yes, the legend he'd meticulously woven to enchant the people of Ivalice, born high and humble alike, was one of fraudulence, muck, and mire…

…but, did it have to remain so?

Yes, he had paved a long road to Hell, and walked far along it, but what if he had not reached the end as he had supposed? What if that mote of light, that remnant of his desire to create a better world, might yet guide him back from the edge of the abyss?

Ramza had faith that such could be so, and it seemed Teta did as well.

The only question was whether Delita shared that same conviction.

Not as a king, but simply as a man who, anguished by the consequences of his callousness and pride and wishing he'd acted more wisely, had been offered a second chance.

It seemed impossible, and yet the evidence was, quite literally, staring back at him, as were those he'd wronged, living and otherwise, and to whom he'd owe a penance either in this world or the next.

And, though few would know of this strange scene, the eyes of the people who still looked to him to continue guiding them to a better future were felt no less acutely, for they too were owed a penance by the king who had gained his crown by upending their lives.

But, first, Delita had to decide for himself whether to follow that tiny spark back from the abyss, to find out whether this second chance would be better spent than his first.

And, as he took one last look at the abyss of madness and despair that yawned wide before his mind's eye, he saw that that choice was no choice at all.

Drawing in a deep breath, and half-expecting the blade to be stuck tight, Delita grasped Excalibur's hilt and pulled.

To his amazement, it slid free as easily as it might've from its sheath.

Another audience might've been awed by the sight, likening it to a miracle and the coming of a Once and Future King.

This audience of ghosts, however, was silent and impassive…

…though, compared to the last few days of haunting recrimination, that was a marked improvement.

Had they decided to reserve judgement, and see just what this king did with the kingdom he'd bought with their lives? Or, had Ramza's impassioned argument given them pause and they wanted to see if the Duke of Lionel might have judged wisely?

Delita could not say.

All he saw was Teta's specter, smiling through her ethereal tears as she vanished.

The rest of the ghosts followed, though Delita could still feel their eyes upon him. Perhaps he would until his dying day, but at least they were more at peace than they had been but mere hours ago.

Perhaps, someday, Delita might even say the same for himself.

For now, he turned to confront the revenant of Algus who, abandoned by his spectral host and seeming very nearly afraid, was drawing away but still flinging insults all the while. Delita regarded him with pity, all too aware of how, if he hadn't been reminded of Algus, he might've become him.

Surely, that warranted an end to the torment of undeath.

With one well practiced slash, he invoked the Holy Sword skill of Divine Ruination and a pillar of heavily radiance shone down from ceilingward, bathing the revenant in light so intense that the stones beneath him were seared black.

When the light dissipated, Algus was gone.

"What was that?" Ramza asked, sounding a touch nervous.

"Algus Sadalfas has just been killed for the third time, some people have no manner of luck at all," Delita replied, with eerie casualness, though he sobered a moment later. "Let's go. There are many ghosts here. We should let them rest."

The two men then took their leave of the decimated war council chamber, climbing the hidden stairs back to the castle. What would happen next, neither could say, though Delita was certain of one thing.

Whatever else happened, he owed Ramza his life and his sanity. And, knowing his old friend, he'd consider keeping both to be the best form or compensation.


	29. Interlude 4, Part 2: To Endure is To Heal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hi, everyone, we're back again! First of all, I'd like to thank everyone who has been keeping up with this fic for the last 3 years and apologize for the late updates since life does tend to get in the way sometimes :) To avoid confusion, I want to make it clear that all interludes are flashbacks that occur within the main story and are written by Falchion1984 whom I want to thank for helping to make this fic possible. Enjoy and please review!

All who knew Ramza Beoulve – not the scion of the once mighty House Beoulve, nor the most infamous heretic of the last century, nor even the reluctant warrior who'd hazard his own life to save others despite how he loathed killing – and knew him truly, would agree that the man was perseverant...

…and, many of those would allege that it was to the point of lunacy.

Ramza did not entirely disagree, for he'd embarked on many a seemingly mad errand in his quest to save Ivalice from the depredations of demonkind. He had left behind a life of luxury and prestige because he hadn't cared for the family patriarch's belief in the acceptability of betraying a solemn oath and sanctioning the killing of an innocent girl. He had taken into his company people who'd once been his enemies, as well as strangers who themselves were hunted and invited further pursuers amongst an already congested procession.

And yet, he regretted none of that.

Granted, many of the lives he'd taken during his journey he wished he could give back, but he would never wish to take back his decision to help Mustadio to rescue his father from the Baert Trading Company's hired blades, to save Agrias from pursuit by the Gryphon Knights, to help Rafa free her brother from Barrington's clutches, to help Beowulf find a way to turn Reis back into a human and then rescue her from Bremondt, to derail the Battle of Fort Besselat and, with it, a massacre of horrific proportions, or to oppose the Lucavi and their catspaws amongst the Knights Templar.

This, and much more, he had done to safeguard the people of Ivalice, though they neither knew it nor would they thank him if they did.

But, that was alright, for Ramza cared nothing for their thanks.

He had done it because, as corrupt and cruel as the people of Ivalice could be, they were still the people he'd pledged his life to. As a boy, he had vowed that he would grow up to be a knight and, when his term at the Academy had drawn near, and the threshold of manhood with it, he had reaffirmed that pledge.

Though harsh reality had tempered his dream, and himself with it, he had nonetheless sworn, then and now, that his blade would defend the helpless and his might would uphold the weak so long as the shadow of death found him to be elusive quarry.

Even as they'd whispered aspersions against him for crimes he did not commit, the pain and suffering the Ivalician people had gone through during the war, he'd felt. And, their joy at the brighter future that seemed to be near at hand, he'd shared.

Even knowing what Delita had done to bring it about, Ramza had to admit that life in Ivalice was taking a turn for the better. Though his old friend's motives and intentions had been so askew, so tainted by bitter anger, warped pride, vainglorious ambitions, and old grudges that should have been left to heal rather than fester, the Duke of Lionel had nonetheless found himself thinking that his fondest wish, that Rachel might grow up in a better world than her parents had, might indeed come to pass.

That Ramza Beoulve had to die, seemingly, and be remembered with such infamy and scorn seemed a small price to pay by comparison. And, though many had paid a far higher price than he, far higher than even a good king was within his rights to ask, the apparent end to generations of misrule might, given time, balance the scales.

And then, when he'd arrived in Lesalia, and saw that the now empty shanty towns were still standing and that the city gates hadn't been rebuilt, a sudden thunderhead had stolen over the rising sun of this brighter future. It had darkened further when Delita had not only failed to greet them, but had suddenly made himself so scarce that even his own bodyguards were hard-pressed to sniff him out. What this had portended, Ramza had not been able to foresee, but he'd been certain of one thing.

Something, somewhere, was going terribly wrong.

Discreet questions had been asked, but all in vain as most knew less than he. But then, he'd chanced upon Delita's attempt to hurl himself from the balcony.

He could still remember the shock of it. There had been Delita, once coldly stoic and unflappable, who'd schemed his way to the throne and left a trail of blood in his wake, all with the cold indifference of a wandering star's distant glow. And yet, there he was, driven near to madness by a morass of guilt and regrets that had been, belatedly, unleashed by a conscience that had, at long last, decided to strike back.

Ramza had managed, barely, to keep knowledge of this episode from escaping his trusted circle. He'd also managed, barely, to talk Agrias out of dragging Delita back to the balcony and hurling him off in retribution for coercing her sister in all but blood into marrying him and then nearly making her a widow.

After that, the Duke of Lionel had tried to determine just what might arrest Delita's slide into madness, all while pointedly keeping his search a secret from Alma.

After all, given that she was gambling that she could find an acceptable husband, close enough in looks to the late Izlude Tingel, and quickly enough that he'd not realize the child she bore was another man's handiwork, the Duchess of Lionel surely had enough on her mind as it was.

So, after the first ball, and already nursing a headache from both Alma's reticence to choose a suitor and how his lecturing her had caused her to pass out from the strain, promptly earning him a stern lecture from Agrias, Ramza had decided to track down Delita and see if there was any other way he could ruin his evening.

That evening had very nearly proven his last when, hearing a commotion from a basement that had hitherto escaped his notice, he'd followed the sound and very nearly gotten his head cut off.

Though Delita was still the finer warrior between the two of them, his derangement had driven all technique from his mind and had him flailing every which way in a fit of demented rage.

All Ramza had to do was tire him out, disarm him, and jolt him back to reality, which led to another picture of just how far Delita had believed himself to have fallen. The lives he had taken, through action and inaction alike, how he'd matched and then exceeded the hubris of the warring dukes and the corrupt church, and how he'd exploited the adulation, and the need, of the people who'd believed in him, all to settle a grudge with a man long dead and to avenge a sister who would've been horrified at what he'd done in her name.

And, to top it all off, his madness had painted the face of that long dead and yet hated man over that of the man who, once upon a time, had been his brother in all but blood, driving him to seek, and very nearly take, the life of one who, even now, had come to him out of concern for a friend.

Most people would've called it justice to have killed Delita.

Most people likely would've considered it a mercy, given the man's state of despairing derangement.

But, as has been said time and again, Ramza was not "most people".

Delita was no saint – quite the opposite, in fact – but, Ramza's travels since leaving House Beoulve behind had been more than enough to impress upon him how the decades of corruption and misrule had scarred Ivalice. And, though Delita had chosen to do much that was deplorable in order to change that, and his debt to the dead was a sizable one, it did not change the fact that much good might yet be done for the people who, though still bruised and bleeding, were keen to reclaim their futures.

As Delita was the king, and the sole remaining power broker in Ivalice after all his contemporaries had been slain, his mind and will were needed, intact, to bring those bright futures to fruition.

The legend of the fairy-tale prince sprung from the pages to set aright a floundering kingdom was, in no small part, a contrivance. But, the people, if not out of ignorance than out desperate need, still believed in that tale. And, more to the point, they believed that the man who was the hero of that tale might yet guide them from the long era of gloomy twilights and bleak nights into a brighter dawn.

For all the lives Delita had callously taken to seize the crown, the Ivalician people nonetheless needed him.

For all the wrongs Delita had done to win his kingship, his kingship has to succeed.

After all, what was the alternative?

And, bizarre though it might've sounded to anyone else, and in spite of everything Delita had done, and done _to_ him, Ramza still considered Delita to be a friend.

As Delita himself had said, though their methods might've differed, their goals hadn't. And, though one could certainly argue that he'd done so for his own purposes, Delita had never directly tried to harm Ramza and had even aided him a few times, not the smallest of which being giving him and Alma a new home and new identities so they might have a chance to live normal lives.

Whatever Delita had done to attain the throne of Ivalice, and whatever motives he'd had to help Ramza, the Duke of Lionel knew that there was strong evidence that Delita's soul was not nearly as twisted and perverted as he'd believed. In fact, his breakdown was proof.

After all, if Delita was as far gone as he'd thought, then he would not have been driven to the brink when his conscience struck back at him.

In that case, there would not have _been_ a conscience to strike back.

Still, though Ramza had listened to Delita's admissions of guilt like a priest in a confessional – which, given both men's stormy history with the church, was yet another irony heaped onto a towering pile – Ramza knew better than to think that such a deep wound of the spirit could be mended so easily.

So, Ramza had lingered at Delita's shoulder as the two had exited the war council chamber, trying – unsuccessfully, he suspected – to keep a straight face as Delita explained to a gobsmacked manservant what had happened in the much dreaded, and now much demolished, warren.

The scene which played out when the two men had emerged was especially striking to the Duke of Lionel, and he hoped that it was not lost on the still fragile Delita.

Once the pair had emerged from the well-hidden door, they'd spied a group of Chimera Knights and several castle servants, all bearing frantic expressions and wheezing as thought they'd spent hours running hither and yon in a desperate search.

Searching, Ramza suspected, for their elusive king.

Spotting their monarch, several gasped in amazement and unadulterated relief before very nearly collapsing to one knee in grateful supplication.

All of them, Ramza noticed, looked relieved. So incredibly relieved, as though terrible burden upon their shoulders had suddenly eased. One of them was even trying, unsuccessfully, to keep his eyes averted so that none would notice how his eyes had misted.

Not many prior lords and monarchs could claim that they could elicit such a reaction simply by reemerging after a troubling absence, nor could many claim to command such devotion from those who served them.

The demise of Queen Ruvelia, and Dukes Larg and Goltana had, reportedly, been celebrated in out-of-the-way corners and spoken in voices hushed and yet ringing with condemnation. Duke Barrington would likely have suffered similar posthumous vilification had those who'd dealt with him directly not been slaughtered during the Horror of Riovanes. And, though Cardinal Draclau and Marquis Elmdor had been loved by those they governed, Ramza found it difficult to envision that either would have so moved this small audience simply by reappearing after a brief, but strange and jarring absence.

A contrivance the legend of Delita might've been, but Ramza hoped that seeing people who believed in it, and who needed the hero of that saga to fulfill his vow to Ivalice, would help to bear up Delita's battered mind and wounded spirit.

Perhaps the sight had, indeed, made an impact, for Delita quickly donned a smile that likely had many an eligible lady lamenting that he was already married.

"Rise, my friends," he directed, the casual yet sincere sounding familiarity causing several to blink in surprise before they complied. "You needn't fret, not now nor over how I've…acted over the past few days. It was a passing malaise, nothing more."

He turned that smile upon Ramza and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

"It took a reminder of how much I owe the people for their faith in me to break free of that despondence," he continued, his smile turning a bit cheeky. "Well, that and some…mild property destruction."

One of the manservants, apparently misliking the implications, vaulted to his feet and, after taking a moment to find the hidden door, raced down the stairs. Moments later, he emerged, his face pale and his lower jaw straining to reach the floor.

"Your Majesty," he'd begun, unable to keep his befuddlement out of his tone, "just…what happened down there?"

"We were engaged in the traditional method by which two men satisfy their urge for fraternal bonding," Delita said.

"And, just what is "traditional method"?" the manservant had asked, sounding very nearly afraid of the answer.

"Hitting each other," Delita had smoothly replied

No doubt asking himself just what they'd been hitting each other with, and why he wasn't paid more for dealing with such nonsense, the manservant had promptly arranged for the damage to be assessed, though Delita quickly informed him that repairs to the warren could wait.

"Right now, we have more immediate concerns to attend to," he'd declared, then spent a moment glancing about the gathered faces for one in particular. Spotting him, Delita nodded gamely.

"Biggs, front and center," he'd directed, and a young, cleanshaven man in the garb of a scribe very nearly sprinted to his king's side.

"Take a note, if you please," Delita ordered, breaking several of his predecessor's precedents with both the courteous wording and actually waiting for the young scribe to have his parchment and pen at the ready before proceeding. "The following items are to be added to the agenda of the next council meeting. Firstly, we are to determine the timetable and manpower needed for the demolition of the shanty towns outside the city. Secondly, while that task is underway, the rubble is to be set aside for use as firewood by the poor. Thirdly, we are to determine the expenses, logistics, and timetable for the rebuilding of Lesalia's city gates. And, fourthly and lastly, I will address the people of our capital, as well as any others who can attend, after these things are done. So, make an additional notation that Wedge's opinion on my speech will be needed."

Again, that cheeky smile.

"I daresay if he isn't consulted, people in Sal Ghidos will be well aware of it from the clamor he'll raise," he'd added, lowing his voice to a mockery of a conspiratorial whisper.

Apparently, this reputation of the woman who, Ramza suspected, was Delita's principal speechwriter was not exaggerated, for those present reacted with either hearty laughter or theatrical shows of dread.

After seeing that their monarch, though bruised and bleeding, seemed very nearly the man who'd handily won their devotion, the group of knights and servants eventually returned to their posts. Delita then beckoned Ramza to follow and, as they wended their way through the opulent corridors, Ramza saw still more signs of how much the castle's inhabitants had missed their king, and how glad they were to have him back.

Some gasped and then sagged with relief at the sight of him.

Others stammered out their replies to his polite greetings and inquires as to how they and their families fared.

And, a few dropped what they were doing (literally) as he approached.

Discreetly glancing over his shoulder as they passed, the Duke of Lionel could see that many of these people, apparently quite moved by the king's emergence from his malaise, were brushing away at tears or whispering words of gratitude not directed towards any mortal ears.

Again, Ramza hoped this was not lost on Delita who, thought far from whole, had a thousand thousand reasons in every soul he passed to find in him the will to honor their unspoken wishes that Ivalice be set on a better course.

After several minutes, the pair were alone in his private office, a functional, if still decadent chamber where the king would confer with visitors and advisers on matters best not discussed in his larger, and more readily accessible, public office.

"So, what brought on those additions to the next council meeting?" Ramza asked once the, compared to its fellows, utilitarian door was firmly closed.

"For quite some time," Delita began as he seated himself at his desk. "I'd believed that leaving the shanty towns standing, and the gates as they were, would serve as a reminder of what we've overcome amidst the tragedies of the wars and as a warning not to let it happen again. I see now, that all I was really doing was stroking my own ego while keeping everyone else's wounds fresh and weeping. Well, it won't erase those memories of the war, but maybe it will help everyone to move on with their lives."

Though Ramza decided against saying so aloud, he approved of the notion.

Aside from offering some closure, both to those castaways who'd huddled in those miserable shacks, and the natives of Lesalia who'd seen their fair city become a warren of crime and misery when the teeming masses allowed hunger and angry to drive them to violence, the act of mending these final lingering wounds of the War of the Lions was also a tangible sign that Delita had changed.

But a few days ago, Ramza suspected, Delita would've been keen to make sure the shanty towns and the ruined gates stayed as they were. The grim reminders of those terrible days, and how they might happen again if he were not obeyed, would've done as much to stifle any opposition to his agenda as did his innate charm and those reformative actions which had Ramza genuinely believing that Rachel would inherit a better world than had her parents.

That Delita would, voluntarily, relinquish such leverage by which he could've kept his supporters compliant and his opposition muzzled bespoke that, at long last, he was thinking less like the Machiavellian schemer who'd won his throne through treachery and murder.

Now, perhaps, he was taking his first pivotal steps towards becoming the monarch the people of Ivalice believed he would be, and which they needed.

Not long after, Delita had passed the word for Olan and Balmafula to join them. Olan was impassive, though Delita had hardly been shy during his despairing derangement about the Chancellor's many reasons for hating his new liege. Balmafula, by contrast, offered no such pretenses. Her eyes had narrowed into daggers and her delicate brows knotted fiercely at the sight of the king.

""Fraternal bonding"?" Olan asked, apparently having heard about the near-demolition of the war council chamber.

"Quite so," Delita replied with a chuckle. "I insinuated that our esteemed Duke of Lionel punched like my late younger sister and, in trying to prove me wrong, he went a tad overboard."

Gladdened to hear Delita talk about Teta as something besides a banner to be raised to justify his sordid acts during the war, it took Ramza a moment to realize he'd just been insulted. After a doubletake and a petulant "Hey!", which did little to dissuade Delita's good natured ribbing, Ramza lapsed into a seething silence.

"Well, I'm sure that when time comes to raise the _five hundred thousand gil_ needed to rebuild the war council chamber, that taxpayers everywhere will share your amusement," Olan remarked with irreverent displeasure at what was, undoubtedly, a sizable headache that would soon cross his desk.

However, a moment later, the king's mirth evaporated and Delita had eyed Olan with an expression of uncharacteristic earnestness which stilled the chancellor's tongue and had him regarding his liege in a silence rife with wary anticipation. Without further preamble, Delita produced a sheaf of parchment from within a drawer of his desk.

"Chancellor Olan," he began, clear solemnity in his tone, "as you may recall, we had discussed a…personal matter not long before the Duke and Duchess of Lionel arrived with their entourage. As I had anticipated, and as I had promised, I have conferred with High Confessor Ryker regarding the documents which the church had turned over to the late Duke Goltana just prior to the Battle of Fort Besselat, implicating your late father in a treasonous conspiracy. Evidently, while taking stock of his predecessor's affairs and dealings, the High Confessor noticed some…troubling peculiarities which merited further investigation. One of these was regarding the provenance of those documents, and High Confessor Ryker has come to the conclusion that they were forgeries. Those parchments you hold are copies of his official statement, bearing his signature and signet. Their contents will be made public knowledge when the High Confessor issues a statement here in a matter of hours."

Olan's customarily stoic features, which had been coolly defiant when facing down Delita and fully expecting the latter man to slip the knife at any moment, had slowly given way to astonishment as the words, and their meaning, sank in.

It had taken but a few days to tarnish the reputation of the famed Thunder God Cid, but, before night touched the castle's spires, the harm would be rectified. And, though Orlandu's "death" made his return from parts unknown impossible, those who spoke of Orlandu would, in mere hours, speak not of his supposed treason but of his vindication, and how he had been a true hero until the very end.

Olan was clearly flabbergasted. Likely, he had not expected either this generosity – and, with it, a partial forfeiture of the leverage Delita had used to keep Olan in his service – nor the oddly contrite tone with which it had been given. Stunned, and yet visible in the throes of heartfelt relief, Olan could only murmur his appreciation.

Not giving either of his visitors the chance to recover from this shock, Delita then produced a locket. Judging by one of his earlier confessions, not to mention how Balmafula's eyes had widened in teror, Ramza had surmised that it must've been the same locket which Delita had used to seal Balmafula's voice.

Then, with a casual flick of the wrist, he'd thrown it into the fireplace, where it melted like wax.

Balmafula's eyes had widened in horror and rage, and she'd begun to curse spectacularly enough to have every deceased highborn lady in the province turning in their graves, as well as to put several living ones into their graves from sheer shock. And yet, after three straight minutes of vulgarity, it dawned on her that the locket which supposedly sealed her voice was gone, and yet her voice was not.

Delita had not destroyed her voice, as he'd previously threatened if she revealed that he was no hound heeling at the church's skirts. Instead, he'd given it back, as well as removed the means by which to prevent Balmafula from either disobeying or exposing him.

In answer to their befuddlement, Delita would only say "I finally got some sense knocked into me. And, I've got the bruises to prove it," gesturing at his still purpled features.

On the heels of this, he produced two sheets of parchment, passing them to both of his astonished visitors.

"Though your service has been brief, and hardly voluntary, both of you have fulfilled your duties admirably," Delita admitted feelingly. "That which I have directed you to do has been done, that which I bade you to keep secret has been kept, and I doubt I should find any who will fulfill their duties as deftly as you two have. Yet, if you so wish it, I shall try nonetheless. Olan, I have had drawn up for you a formal resignation from the Chancellorship. And, for you, Balmafula, I have had drawn up a form for your deactivation as an informant for the crown. Obviously, we'll need to reach an understanding on what must never be disclosed outside these walls, but, if you wish to depart and see to your own affairs, then you need but sign."

For a long moment, Olan and Balamfula simply stared at the parchments, as though wondering if their eyes might've been cheated by some spell. And, indeed, it likely felt like only some subtle magecraft could explain this sudden change of heart on the part of a man who'd seemed in times past to have the waters of the arctic sea in his veins.

Delita had blackmailed Olan into serving him, first by practically snatching him from the executioner's block and then by dangling before him the promise of exonerating his falsely maligned father. Thus, Delita had doubly exploited Olan's sense of honor and chivalry to keep him firmly leashed, lending his keen wits and political acumen to the reign of the peasant king who'd won his throne by meticulously stabbing others in the back.

For Balmafula, he had been far less subtle. Having sniffed out her intentions to kill him if he strayed from then-High Confessor Marcel's course, Delita had first undermined her loyalty to her masters by manipulating her budding respect and admiration for him. Then, seizing upon the empathy they'd felt for one another, even as he'd confessed to manipulating everyone, including the church, to fulfill his ends, he had used his newfound knowledge of her ancient coven to craft a magic which would silence her, forever, if she uttered a word against him.

That had been the Delita they'd known, whom they had served even as they'd resented him, whom they begrudgingly admired for his cunning even as the quietly reviled him for his bloody deeds, and whom they'd both expected to serve under the day they'd died while Delita held a loaded crossbow to both of their heads.

And yet, to their stupefaction, that same man had just lowered the crossbow and let slip the leashes.

With one signature, both would be free to leave Delita's service and to never look back.

The temptation was clearly there, as Delita had practically thrown wide the bars of the cells that had kept them manacled to his reign. No less evident was their surprise at this sudden turn, though Ramza sensed that his own presence likely offered a hint or two as to what had brought it about.

Then, after a long moment, Olan handed the parchment back, unsigned.

"Your offer is most generous, Your Majesty," he affirmed. "But, I wish to retain my office for at least a while longer. There is much yet to be done for this country…and, candidly, I'd sleep better at night knowing there was someone here to keep you honest."

Delita did not dispute the point.

Balmafula likewise refused and, although she did not say why specifically, her slender fingers tugging Olan's hand into her own offered a hint or two.

After a hesitant nod, Delita passed a sealed envelope to the pair.

"I had originally intended for this to be your final assignment," he said. "Regardless, I've no doubt that it is in good hands. Enlist aid as you deem necessary, but you will observe, and abide by, the requirements that this matter be kept in confidence to the best of your ability. For now, simply put, you are to seek out confirmation about whether or not "the package" exists. If so, you will act in accordance to these orders."

Delita pointedly did not say just what "the package" might be, not just what they were supposed to do if, indeed, its existence be confirmed. And, when Ramza tried to slip around to where he could read over Olan and Balmafula's shoulders, Delita promptly snatched him by the forearm and yanked him back.

Though this act did enflame Ramza's curiosity regarding just what this "package" might be, it was promptly blown out of his head when the king informed him that, whereas he'd wanted to relieve Olan and Balmafula of their posts, he'd wanted Ramza to take on one of his own.

Grandmaster of the Order of the Chimera.

Noticing Ramza's astonishment, and that he seemed less-than-enamored by the idea, Delita had been quick to argue his case.

"Right now, there are only two kinds of people in Ivalice," he'd said. "Those who are so entranced by my "legend" that they'd walk backwards while standing on their hands if I but asked, and those who are too intimidated by me to offer even token resistance to my decrees. But, you? You are something else entirely. And, not just because you are neither dazzled nor cowed, but because you don't spend the blood of your troops like so much gil, nor are you above seeking parley when it might avert needless bloodshed. It is my fondest hope that we'll all grow old and pass on without another battle horn sounding, nor another war host needing to be mustered, but I've learned, the hard way, that plans can unravel simply by the whims of the fate. If ever conflict should come again to our soil, Ivalice needs a commander who will see her sons and daughters return alive from the battlefield."

Here, Delita had paused and, heaving a sad sigh, added "And, I need someone who won't hesitate to tell me when I'm acting wrongly."

Though Ramza's political acumen hovered somewhere above that of a badger and below that of a schoolboy, he could see what his old friend was driving at. It was true that, although Delita had assembled a veritable army of dedicated and talented people to aid him in rebuilding Ivalice, all of them owed their positions, their salaries, and, indeed, their very lives, to Delita.

How many of them would even think to question the king, who'd practically brought spring to a land of eternal winter, if he once again strayed towards his darker inclinations?

Though Delita had assembled such a group, at least in part, because he knew they'd serve him well but never question him, thus allowing him to pursue his agenda unhindered, his recent brush with madness had shown him just how hazardous that course might prove.

And so, with no real checks and balances remaining to deter his whims, and yet aware that such could not stand, he'd decided to invent one by placing in charge of his army someone he trusted to question his judgment when it needed to be questioned.

Ramza would be in an ideal position to pressure Delita into changing course when the ship of state strayed too near the shoals. In fact, in extreme circumstances, he might even be in a position to turn the army against Delita and wrest the helm of Ivalice, should the king truly turn to evil.

Delita wanted someone he could trust to stop him if he once more strayed into darkness, and perhaps to depose or even kill him if he failed to right his course.

The logic was clear, as was the depth of trust behind it, but Ramza had no small amount of misgivings.

Yes, it was true that Ramza had intervened when Delita was poised on the brink of self-destruction. And, it was true that he had repeatedly prevailed over superior foes and unfailingly gotten his friends through alive. But, that was a score and one of men and women, as well as a chocobo, a construct, and a renegade demon.

Even in peacetime, a knightly order meant to safeguard the entire realm could number anywhere from many hundreds to several thousand.

Even after Delita had pointed out that he'd be able to split the labor between himself, Agrias, Beowulf, his old Academy classmates, and, ultimately, a proper general's staff, that weight of responsibility seemed no lighter. Especially not when the question of the governance of Lionel had come up. Delita had suggested that many of the day-to-day affairs could be handled by a staff while Ramza acted as an absentee governor. But, of course, that was assuming anyone would agree to work in Lionel Castle, which, despite no longer being regarded as haunted, was still quite off-putting to those who'd loved Cardinal Draclau, those who despised all things Pharist, and those who might find it hard to concentrate with several dozen children underfoot. Alternatively, Delita suggested that Alma and her future husband could be groomed for the role.

Ramza wasn't sure which suggestion he disliked more.

Though turning the foreboding mass of stone that was Lionel Castle into a place he'd be willing to raise Rachel hadn't left much room for an "unofficial" education in governing a province, Ramza didn't doubt for a moment that it was an exhausting occupation. It was also the last thing he'd want to dump in Alma's lap, what with all she'd already had weighing upon her slender shoulders. Yet, at the same time, he had been more than a bit leery about letting still more strangers into his home, given the secrets within that needed to stay hidden. And, though he'd taken every precaution, adults might prove less obedient than grateful youngsters when told not to go anywhere near the out of the way, and heavily ensorcelled, rooms in the castle's upper levels.

The wards that caused anyone who approached the hiding place of the Zodiac Stones to be beset by overwhelming fear was more than enough to discourage children who likely knew little of magic, but suppose the staff of whomever governed Lionel recognized the spellwork, and began to wonder what it had been intended to hide?

Something had to be done, something had to be said, to make sure that nothing, not even mere happenstance, allowed the Auracite to find its way into mortal hands.

But, given Delita's fragile state, even mentioning anything related to the Zodiac Stones would not be wise.

It also hadn't helped that, when Ramza implored Olan and Balmafula to object, they'd promptly said that they thought it was a _splendid_ idea.

"Let me get this straight," Ramza had said, not bothering to hide his frustration. "You, King Delita Hyral the First, want me, your "cousin" to become the Grandmaster of the Order of the Chimera, essentially making me the head of your army. You want me issuing orders to hundreds, maybe thousands, of men and women-at-arms, almost all of which will be older, more experienced, and have seniority over me. And, from what you tell me, my biggest qualification is that I punched you in the face?"

Balamfula feigned a swoon upon hearing this while Olan, by the look of things, was keeping his face blank with only the mightiest of efforts.

"That's right," Delita had replied, a curious mingling of smugness and contrition lacing his words. "Oh, but you need not take my word for it. Haven't you heard the tales being whispered about the museum, which is crammed with artifacts you discovered? What about the tavern gossip about all those missions you undertook? Exposing Count Minimas's corruption? Routing the Braana pirate clan off the Favoham coast? Rescuing Lord Pappal? Helping expose the abuses at the Riovanes Military Institute? Finding the evidence needed to dissolve the poaching syndicate? Exposing the Larcam Mercantile's opium smuggling operation? What about rescuing our own Chancellor from bandits? How about bringing to justice those Hokuten deserters who'd turned to brigandry? And, I could go on. But, the point is that news of your exploits – those we can disclose, at least – is getting around. My legend is not the only one that's been making the rounds. People are beginning to whisper about a young warrior, a boy in face but a man in spirit, who appears seemingly from nowhere when the defenseless are in peril, who skillfully leads a band of companions in his derring-do, takes only that which was offered in payment, which was usually very little, and then departs as silently as he came. I daresay, you lacking gray hairs will matter very little when the Chimera Knights, many of whom are likely people you've helped, learn that you are not only real but that you now command them. Even if it isn't the same as having Lord Balbanes or Count Orlandu back, it will still be a boon to have one who is a proven warrior and leader, and a legend in his own right, in command."

Ramza had wanted, desperately, to dredge up some counterargument, some excuse, anything to slip out from under the crushing weight of responsibility Delita seemed poised to dump into his lap…and yet, the words would not come. Was It because he was too overwrought to summon them? Perhaps. Was it because, despite Delita's claims to the contrary, Ramza could, indeed, by dazzled by the king's gift for semantics? Maybe. Was it because, like some remnant of childhood wishes that lingered on the fringe of the mind in hopes they might yet be fulfilled, the chance to helm a knighthood as his father would have had been stirred to life? Quite possibly.

And, indeed, a small part of him found that old dream returning with startling clarity. Though Balbanes Beoulve had been a true knight, not just a man of valor but also one of unwavering righteousness, he had died very nearly alone in that distinction. As he had wasted away in his sickbed – believed by most to be afflicted by malady when, in truth, he'd been poisoned by a son who'd decided his lust for power was more precious than kin – it had, in hindsight, seemed to Ramza that chivalry had died with him, as few were the knights who wouldn't menace, harm, rob, or do worse to the smallfolk of their enemies, and fewer still were the knights who, when faced with a situation where duty or honor could prevail, but not both, would choose to uphold the latter. Other contagions, such as contempt for those of lower birth, sadism towards the vanquished, an ever-increasing amenability towards bribes, seeking personal victories and enacting petty revenges at the expense of fellows and missions alike, and still more had also festered beneath the gleaming surface of mail and shield.

Though Ramza had, following the tragedy at Fort Zeakden, believed it best that he withdraw from the realm of knights, which had no place for one who hewed to the values and principals of a bygone era, the notion of commanding a knightly order did strike a nerve.

After all, the Order of the Chimera would likely last longer than either he or Delita would.

What if he could take a hand to make sure that what it became was akin to what his father would have wanted, had he lived? What if knights of Ivalice could once again stand as men and women of honor and virtue. What if an Ivalcian knightly order could once again stand as a force meant to safeguard the realm justly?

What if the contagion that had driven him from the Hokuten might be expunged from the Chimera?

The allure was there, but so too was the knowledge that, should war come to Ivalice's door again, than a few minutes of delay, a moment's drift in his concentration, or even a whisker of weakness would mean that one, or more, or several, or even many of the lives in his charge could be lost.

The burden of losing a brother or sister-in-arms was one he'd, thankfully, outmaneuvered in the war, but he knew better than to think such luck would not eventually desert him.

Still wanting an egress from this situation, though not with the same intensity as before, he turned pleadingly to Olan. But, the Chancellor promptly raised one palm to silence the Duke of Lionel.

"I agree with Delita," Olan said simply; he then blinked and shook his head. "I can't believe I just said that. But, in all seriousness, someone like you would make a great difference for Ivalice. More than that, I believe your legend needs to be told. Not just of how many lives you've saved during your "mercenary work", but also of what you truly did against those who sparked this war."

Though Olan had kept his words oblique – likely in case any might be listening in, but curiously unconcerned by Balmafula's presence – it was clear enough what he intended.

Olan wanted to expose the Church of Glabados's involvement in orchestrating the War of the Lions.

Ramza wanted to object, to warn that, for all his apparent weakness, High Confessor Ryker would surely retaliate if hemmed to tightly into a corner. But, he knew it would be futile.

If Olan was anything like his adoptive father, Orlandu, then death alone had the power to dissuade him.

And, though it just might come to that, Ramza could only hope that he wasn't the only one with the devil's own luck.

With that, Olan and Balmafula bowed and left the room, their hands still intertwined, quite oblivious to Ramza grumbling "Traitors".

Ramza lost no time reiterating his objections, though these were once more rebuffed by Delita. Ultimately, Ramza could only beg leave to think it over. He supposed, however, that he could console himself with the knowledge that, whomever did end up commanding the Chimera Knights, would not have the Lucavi and their mortal minions to deal with.

"That's behind us now, though," Ramza had remarked to himself later on. "That threat to the realm is ended. Now for the next one!"

And, indeed, at least one still lingered. For, although he'd remained at Delita's shoulder for some time, watching for any sign that the king might lapse back into his deranged depression, it was not lost on Ramza that Delita had pointedly avoided mentioning what he would do regarding Ovelia.

Indeed, he'd been visibly straining to keep his eyes away from the small portrait of her which sat on his desk.

Ultimately, Ramza had posed the question.

By way of reply, Delita had heaved a sigh of bleak melancholy, worse than when he'd tottered on the brink of madness, and pointedly set the portrait face down.

"That ship has sunk," he'd said, with a palpable undertone of sad finality.

He went on to bandy about a few thoughts on Ovelia's future, since her outlook would become quite bleak if Delita were to divorce her. She might spend some time in Lionel or Riovanes, since she'd shown a fondness for children and an eagerness to help those in need. She might also travel the realm to oversee the ongoing reconstruction, as she'd surely be eager to get to know this land for whose sake she had endured so many years of loneliness. All these suggestions sounded very much like he either didn't want to be reminded of how he'd lost her love or that he didn't trust himself not to harm her should the temptation emerge again.

Either way, Delita was clearly convinced that he'd damaged his marriage beyond saving.

And, whether for love of his brother in all but blood, or love of the country whose future was still far from secure, or because Ramza could never abide letting the anguish of others go unassuaged, he knew what he had to do.

Though Delita had been coaxed back from the brink, he was not, by any stretch of the imagination, "alright". Though he'd busied himself, though he'd committed himself to making sure that the faith which the Ivalician people had placed in him was vindicated, that commitment, and his sanity, remained fragile.

It wouldn't take many blows to drive him back to the edge, nor much more after that to see him topple over the brink.

But, if a reconciliation between him and Ovelia could be achieved, then that might change everything.

Still, Ramza knew that the direct approach would not avail him.

He and Ovelia had known each other for mere days following her rescue from Dycedarg's attempted assassination and, since his friendship with Delita was likely no secret to her, she might look upon his intervention...unfavorably.

But, what if someone else, someone who cared for Ovelia and whom she trusted, was willing to help Ramza?

Unfortunately, since Ovelia had been sequestered in monasteries practically since birth, that list was a very short one, even before it had been drastically culled by the massacre at Orbonne.

Though Ovelia had been practically family to her, Ramza could rule out Agrias right away. She had never liked or trusted Delita, and would likely want to cut his head off if she caught so much as a whiff of how she'd very nearly been made a widow by the king's derangement.

Asking Alma was chancy, for she already suspected that something was wrong and, if she sniffed out that Delita had twice attempted to kill himself and nearly took Ramza with him, then he shuddered to imagine the consequences for her health.

But, as far as the Duke of Lionel knew, his sister – who was pregnant out of wedlock, privately grieving for the man who'd almost been her husband, and trying to find a suitor who could be tricked into thinking he'd sired her child – was quite literally his only option.

Once Delita had decided that he needed to rest, Ramza pointedly put Ovelia's portrait back in place. He then said to Delita, who was by then slumbering in a well-padded leather chair by the fire – and likely not for the first time, judging by how the chair would soon need to be reupholstered and the fireplace had clearly seen rigorous use of late – that he wasn't giving up, and that it was important that Delita didn't either.

Not bothering to see if his words had roused the sleeping king, Ramza had left the room and sought out Alma. After warding off several – admittedly, deserved – salvos of harsh words regarding how he'd lambasted her after the ball, he'd managed, with more than a bit of pleading, to convince her to help him. Making a few strategic omissions, he'd relayed that he'd come to share Alma's belief that something was wrong between Delita and Ovelia, and that they might need help to rectify the situation.

Alma had agreed and, not long before she was due to be dressed for the second ball, she had summoned her brother.

According to her, she had written to Ovelia, using an ancient pictographic language they'd studied as part of their education in Orbonne, and which they'd sometimes used to pass notes back and forth between and during classes. Though some of the reported history of the civilization which had created the language could seem fantastical – of how they had built immense monuments of sandstone that rose from a square base in massive triangular sides to converge at an apex, located some hundreds of feet above the ground, and how they'd carved likenesses of desert lions with the faces of men, which were more than two hundred feet from forepaws to tail – he could almost sense the antiquity of their unique script.

Alma told him that the figures she'd drawn spelled out the message "You should see him, he's paid a heavy price for his lies."

Ramza had to take her word for it; as fascinating as the pictographic language was, he couldn't make heads or tails of it.

But, Ovelia's reply had been far from encouraging.

""He made us all pay"," the Duchess of Lionel had read solemnly.

"And?" Ramza asked, though his words were soft and subdued.

"And, nothing. She didn't write anything else."

Heaving a deep sigh, Ramza collapsed into a chair and tried vainly to massage away what he suspected would soon turn into a pounding headache. Though he'd known better than to expect one plea to mend a troubled marriage, he had hoped for more than what sounded like an oblique rebuff. And, though Ramza remained as committed to protecting Ivalice's future as he was when he'd first discovered the Lucavi's schemes, this latest setback had him wondering just how much he could shoulder.

After all, Delita was keen to make him the Grandmaster of the Order of the Chimera. And yet, Delita's mental state was still fragile after his brush with madness and death. At the same time, Alma needed a husband, and quickly enough to disguise the true paternity of her child. The office of the governor of Lionel still needed to be filled. The Zodaic Stones, which were still hidden in Lionel, had to be kept out of the hands of those susceptible to demonic influence. The still missing Pisces Stone needed to be found, before the resident Lucavi demon found a host with which to wreak havoc. And, on top of all that, he still had the wellbeing of Agrias, Rachel, Alma, and his unborn niece or nephew to think of.

Had Hashmalum risen from the dead, kicked down the door, and demanded a rematch, it might have almost been an improvement.


	30. Bullets, Blades, and Beaus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Co-Author's Note: This is Falchion1984, and there are a few things I think I ought to address before beginning this chapter. First, in order to make this duel properly wow-inducing, I had to rather flagrantly break a number of rules regarding FFT's Job System. Essentially, Meliadoul is not only able to master various abilities for several classes but also to reassign them during battle, something normally impossible. In my playthrough of FFT:WotL, I had every character master every Job Class, and even made sure that all of them learned Zodiark. And, in case you're wondering, yes, that was every bit as tedious as it sounds. If not more so. But, I suspect any character subjected to such nonsensical overpowering would shred even large numbers of lesser warriors, not only by being ridiculously strong but able to use hither-to unheard-of combinations of Primary Action, Secondary Action, Reaction, Support and Movement Abilities. So, let's see if I'm right.

Though the ball had continued with the characteristic opulence of any royal gala, Duchess Catherine's appearance, arm-in-arm with her mysterious suitor of foreign stock, had taken the suspense out of the affair.

Though curiosity yet remained as to how such a lovely lady could've gone unnoticed prior to her seemingly springing from nowhere just in time for her debut on the social stage but days earlier, interest in the beautiful and eligible duchess had swiftly taken root. Unmarried, but desirable, men of many different stations and walks of life had swarmed into Lesalia, dressed in their finest and eager to urge their suit. And, indeed, even those who'd be present simply for food, drink, and entertainment had expected a pitched contest, along with the idle pleasure of weighing the merits of each contender from the sidelines, debating with their fellows as to which suitor had the best merits, and the delectable thrill of suspense as the answer drew nearer with almost painful slowness.

These plans had been upended by the appearance, and apparent victory, of the enigmatic Sir Damien Mitchell.

Many, perhaps even most, of those present had heard of this mysterious knight of Romandan stock who had, according to the _Times_ , routed a legion of undead haunting the mines of Gollund, simultaneously saving hundreds of jobs and claiming a veritable fortune from amongst the phantasms' hoard. Those who'd recognized him, but who were keen to gauge this emergent legend of a man, had, using techniques long since mastered by consummate Lesalian gossips, surveilled him unseen.

Such venerable tactics as watching out of the corner of one's eye, of moving in close enough to listen while one's attention was seemingly directed elsewhere, reading lips, and other such methods by which to divine the latest tittle-tattle from the unsuspecting were brought to bear upon this late arrival to the ball. And, though reputation was known to make mountains out of molehills, as the saying went, those who surveilled Sir Damien did not come away disappointed.

They saw a man who was courteous and considerate, even-tempered and good humored, personable and articulate and, overall, one who had more than a few suspecting he'd likely come up from behind to claim the prize.

Such an upset was not unheard-of and, for some, it added a new dimension to the already considerable thrill which only the pursuit of such a hotly contested prize could offer. For others, however, it seemed to bring the contest to a premature conclusion, causing the fires of adversity to gutter out too soon, and leading many to nurse their disappointment with drink and other balms.

For more than a few attending the ball, the moment Duchess Catherine apparently made her choice of suitor signified that the suspense was over…

…"was" being the operative word.

Though none had expected the nominal head of the now decimated Knights Templar to attend – and on the arm of a younger and oh-so-garishly dressed man, no less – this had been more than enough to get tongues wagging again. Even before her father's mysterious – and, as yet, unexplained – death, it was, at best, uncommon to see Dame Meliadoul Tingel attending such a gala, and she'd never done so with a man on her arm…

…at least a few, upon seeing her companion, suspected that they now knew why.

Being noticeably shorter than his lady and having a face more akin to a boy than a man, Dame Meliadoul's escort had more than a few attendees snickering behind their palms. And, that was discounting his swashbuckling ensemble, which seemed far more suitable to a costume party than a royal ball.

Many had had a private laugh at this seeming buffoonery but, when Dame Lollotte had barged in and accused Meliadoul of desertion and cowardice, the comedy had become a drama. And, with the apparent promise that Lollotte's insult could only be answered by the clashing of swords, the excitement of the evening, once flagging for many, was now caught high upon a fresh gale of anticipation.

Anticipation became surprise, however, when Meliadoul's unlikely escort chose to intervene.

"Hold!" he intoned, with a firm and steady voice which was quite at odds with the rest of his appearance. "I am Mustadio Bunanza, warrior and machinist, and I-"

"'And, I forgot that All Hallow's Eve is next week?'" Dame Lollotte suggested, obvious derision in her voice.

Though some found Dame Lollotte's biting sarcasm to be unbecoming of a knight receiving what was, seemingly, an earnest challenge in defense of another's honor, others were forced to gnash their teeth together as mirth bubbled in their throats at this witty rejoinder.

Once more acting in defiance of his seemingly childish appearance, the young man, Mustadio, offered no reaction to the withering barb save for his blond eyebrows knotting together.

Curiously, several amongst the audience noticed that Dame Meliadoul had clenched her fist, though whether it was because she was affronted by Lollotte's latest insult or because she, a lifelong woman-at-arms, did not wish for another to fight her battles, none could say.

The stretching second of contemplation came to an abrupt halt, however, when Mustadio once more spoke.

"I have studied your chivalric code-" he began, his voice remarkably clear and steady for one who was dangerously close to crossing blades with a veteran Templar, but his opponent once more cut him off.

"Went straight for the good stuff after learning your letters, eh boy?" Lollotte asked condescendingly, and this time several onlookers couldn't restrain their amusement.

Some of the invitees needed to avert their eyes, lest they double over with the hilarity of it, while others simply couldn't muster such restraint and were soon laughing themselves breathless whilst sagging against the walls, pillars, or whomever had the misfortune of standing close by.

More than a few young men of Mustadio's years – and, indeed, he looked very much like a child compared to the taller and much more imposing Dame Lollotte – would have stomped away in a huff, perhaps even in tears, after such a humiliation. Yet, the chortling wavered uncertainly when the merrymakers realized that, not only had Mustadio not been reduced to tears by this onslaught, but that he didn't even look particularly impressed by his seeming opponent.

Instead, those of the audience who were closest and the most observant noticed that a thoughtful expression had crossed Mustadio's face. Perhaps he was less certain of his course of action than he'd let on, for though it was expected for a gentleman to leap to the defense of a maligned lady, his doing so had seemed impulsive and many believed him to be in over his head. Or, maybe he was determined to see through this challenge, but the best course by which to pursue it was unclear, for some caught sight of him meditatively stroking the grinning crossbones-bisected skull upon his belt, as though the bronze facsimile of a mouth might offer counsel.

And, maybe it did, for Mustadio's eyes suddenly widened for a split-second, as though he'd realized something he'd previously overlooked, and then he regarded Lollotte with a gaze quite different than that which he'd worn previously.

"If you're quite done auditioning for the post of court jester," he taunted, causing several nearby to gasp, "I want to fight you in Lady Meliadoul's place."

Though at least a few had suspected the young man was leading up to that, most were nonetheless startled that he'd, apparently, chosen to go through with it. Though Mustadio was clearly no coward – for one to insult a Templar, one had to either possess a great deal of courage or be greatly lacking in self-preservation – it seemed doubtful he would provide Dame Lollotte with much sport. Not only was his opponent much taller and better muscled than he, but his costume was clearly a poor substitute for Lollotte's golden armor and his cutlass lacked the reach of her knight's sword.

The theory about Mustadio having more bravery than wits suddenly seemed quite plausible.

"Are you sure it's not you who's auditioning as jester here?" Lollotte asked, amusement at the challenge overpowering, just barely, her incredulity at the earlier insult. "You're certainly dressed for it."

Almost as if two different men were speaking with the same voice, Mustadio's earlier swagger cooled into stoic determination.

"The chivalric code clearly states that, if insults and false allegations are levied against a lady, then one may champion her and fight on her behalf," the self-styled warrior/machinist pointed out. "I cannot, and will not, let that drivel you spouted earlier go unanswered, so I will duel you in milady's place!"

Dame Lollotte was, to put it charitably, unimpressed.

"You?!" she spluttered, the scowl she'd worn but moments before suddenly unraveling as her cheeks bulged trying to hold in a gale of laughter.

And, indeed, more than a few shared the sentiment. If this unlikely contender looked small next to Meliadoul, he looked downright diminutive next to Lollotte. Sinewy, but hardly of impressive musculature, and likely lacking in reach compared to his opponent, most were of the opinion that he would be soundly beaten in a contest that would seem more akin to a comedy.

The more discerning amongst the audience, however, saw the gleam in those eyes, youthful but bright and sharp with intelligence. Those eyes had the attentive suspecting that another upset might be forthcoming.

Dame Lollotte, apparently seeing more cause for mirth than concern, turned scornful eyes upon Meliadoul.

"Funny, I thought you donned plate and sword so that you could fight your own battles rather than having menfolk do it for you," she intoned derisively.

Quite a few women, independent and otherwise, likely would've considered such a slight to be beyond the bounds of what was acceptable and proper in a pending duel, and it was not uncommon for women of the knighthood to answer such a barb with clenched fist, if not a flashing blade. Meliadoul, by contrast, regarded Lollotte with a look more akin to disappointment.

"Our instructor always did say that your arrogance would one day prove your downfall, Lollotte," she intoned, not bothering to hide her disgust. "Perhaps that day has arrived? It would not surprise me. I've had Mustadio at my shoulder through many battles, and he's never once disappointed me. I cannot say the same for you."

Lollotte's expression had grown more and more livid with each word of this retort, and some genuinely expected that she would disregard the chivalric code and cleave Meliadoul in two, even as she stood unarmed. Lollotte might've tried it too, had a hand gauntleted in gold not clapped down upon her shoulder. Still near to a spitting rage, Lollotte turned, keen to cruelly lambaste this interloper.

Upon seeing that it was King Delita himself who had interrupted, the rage drained out of her face, along with no small amount of blood.

"You will pardon my interruption, I hope?" Delita asked, with his characteristic courtesy. "I could not help but notice that your disagreement was getting…a bit out of hand, and thought I'd best intervene. I myself know the chivalric code quite well, as I was fortunate enough to know not one but two who upheld it most admirably. And, I must concur with young Mustadio's assessment. Though Dame Meliadoul is a knight in her own right, if she is indeed Mustadio's woman…"

That implication seemed to draw one side of the confrontation up short. After blinking stupidly for several seconds, Mustadio turned back to Meliadoul, his cheeks reddening. Those amongst the ring of gawkers could discern that, in another break from his strange gyration between stoic determination and sharp-witted swagger, the sight of Meliadoul caused a nervous grin to tug at the corners of his mouth. Meliadoul, though no less caught off-guard by being put on the spot like that – and by the king, no less – nonetheless gave Mustadio a pretty, if shy, smile in return.

"…then, if she agrees, he is within his rights to duel in her place," Delita affirmed, ending this pronouncement with a knowing chuckle. "Perhaps, Dame Meliadoul, you would wish to give him a token of your favor?"

"If it would please Your Majesty, I would," the divine knight affirmed and, raising more than a few eyebrows in so doing, she plucked a ring from her finger and slid it onto that of her unlikely champion.

"Good luck," she whispered, smiling prettily at Mustadio.

"I'll give her the you-know-what," he replied, with surprising confidence, as he tapped at one of the odd sheaths on his belt.

Those few in earshot most assuredly did not know what, but it seemed Dame Meliadoul was better informed. Sudden mischief tugged at the corners of her lips and she brought up a clenched fist as though to muffle an amused snort.

Whatever it was that her unlikely champion had in mind, some sensed that it would prove impressive.

"Very well," Lollotte intoned, only barely managing to restrain the mingled contempt and amusement in her tone as she turned to face her unlikely opponent. "I will allow you to champion your lady. After all, her hiding behind a fool will only vindicate me. I do hope your _mother_ is on hand to bind your wounds after I'm done with you. But, I can be generous, so I will leave the choice of weapon to you. Shall it be slingshots? Reed blades, maybe?"

Some of the more derisive amongst the audience had expected the young man's determined expression to finally waver, if not under the ongoing barrage of insults then at the prospect of actually fighting a seasoned Templar. But, to their surprise, these barbs seemed to have no effect. If anything, the young man seemed to have anticipated this reaction, for he smiled broadly and gave his answer.

"Guns will be our weapon!"

In an instant, the comedy had ended.

Though many had heard of these strange contraptions – a lost technology from the age of Saint Ajora, resurrected but scant years prior after Romanda's brief incursion during the Fifty Years War and then proliferated by the machinists of Goug – very few of those present had even seen a gun and these innovations remained largely a mystery to those present…and, in some cases, were a source of terror.

Some of those present had heard tales of how these same devices could be used to, literally, ventilate a man, armored or no, leaving him to bleed out his life from a blow that no mortal eye could even see coming. Others had heard of how the larger cousins of these strange devices, the cannons, could either smash a man to pieces as easily as one might shatter a clay pot with one blow. A few had even heard tales where these cannons had, in one shout of thunder and fire, either squashed one or more men into a pulp of gore or had caused them to seemingly vanish, blasted into pieces too small and too numerous to even be found, while only a crater remained to bespeak the eldritch power that had made them vanish.

Suffice to say, quite a few of the once-laughing attendees were now blanching visibly.

Others, though hardly lacking in apprehensiveness, found curiosity and fascination competing with their fears. Were these guns as powerful, and as deadly, as the tales made them out to be? And, how did they work? Though most present were familiar with the crossbow, even a cursory glance at the guns which the young man removed from his belt was enough to show that the two weapons were alike only in the vaguest respects.

It fired a projectile at tremendous speeds, that was true. But, what was this phantasmal projectile that could, reportedly, fly and strike unseen? How was the projectile loaded, given that the only visible openings were too tiny to accept anything larger than a marble? Why did it thunder so when its seemingly arcane power was released? For some, this morbid curiosity proved the prevailing force.

For Lollotte, a hardened veteran not given to nigh-superstitious dread in the face of unknown adversaries, her reaction had been confined to a brief, but telling, break in her confident and haughty exterior. Presumably, she'd expected Mustadio to choose one of the more commonly employed weapons of Ivalice, such as the sword, the spear, the axe, or any other of the longtime implements of war known to Ivalice's defenders. As a Templar, Lollotte would've been drilled extensively in all of these, and several likely would've been too heavy for Mustadio to even lift, let alone fight with.

Yet, in giving him the choice of weapon, she had unwittingly given him an opening to take what had seemed an easy victory and turned it on its head by choosing a weapon she knew practically nothing about. Though it had been rumored that the Templar Balk had used a gun with great proficiency, he had learned this skill outside of the order, and he had been as disinterested in sharing his unique skill as the order had been in adding it to their training regimen.

Indeed, as Lollotte had never served alongside Balk, and had had no inclination to do so, she didn't even have the recollection of seeing him practicing his marksmanship to go on.

Whether by foresight or luck, Mustadio had managed to chivy Lollotte into a contest where she would be at a steep disadvantage.

Clearly, the implications of this were not lost on her, and this showed in particular by her brow furrowing in surprise and perplexity for half a second before settling back into the grim promise of humiliation for any who stood in her way.

"Very well," she said, with grim finality. "You shall have your contest."

An unintelligible, but noisome, babble of voices, some excited but others downright worried, soon echoed through the ballroom at these words. Amidst the clamor, it was almost overlooked when Dame Meliadoul, hitherto silent, suddenly chuckled.

"You'll be sorry," she intoned in a singsongy voice that had several eyebrows arching.

Befuddled, and more than a little irritated, Lollotte had been about to demand one of the guns so that she might have a weapon when Delita intervened once more.

"Hold, both of you!" he intoned, with palpable urgency. "Master Mustadio, I can appreciate your eagerness to champion your lady. But, as both of us have seen these weapons in action during the war, I trust you can appreciate why I will not condone you two exchanging gunfire in the middle of a crowded ballroom?"

At the prospect of this unorthodox duel being either redrawn or aborted, some were disappointed. Though few were genuinely ignorant that such a contest, like its more traditional contemporaries, could easily result in the death of at least one combatant, there were those who regarded that as a hazard of defending honor with feats of arms and others whom regarded the potential bloodshed as a selling point. Others, by contrast sagged with relief. For a few, this solace was rooted in a distaste, or dread, towards blood sport, especially after the carnage of the War of the Lions, while others were soothed at this turn due to their regarding guns with a dread that verged on superstition. Mustadio, however, did not seem inclined to let such an anticlimax stand, not even when it came from the lips of the king.

"With all due respect, Your Majesty?" he asked, his boldness startling many, who were startled all the more when Delita nodded for him to continue. "Who said we were going to be shooting at each other? We will shoot at targets, like those from the archery range, and the winner will be determined by accuracy."

It seemed to, belatedly, occur to Mustadio that being so forward with his king might not be wise.

"…erm," he trailed off weakly, "I mean, if that pleases you?"

Some amongst the audience caught sight of Lollotte rolling her eyes at this sudden demureness, and a few shared the sentiment. Still, once more demonstrating the nigh-bottomless well of clemency and beneficence for which he was famed, Delita seemed to ponder the notion and then nodded his ascent.

"Very well," he intoned, though with great firmness in his words. "But, I must ask you to curtail damage to the castle as much as possible. And, more importantly, there is to be no one downrange of your shots. Putting bullets in my guests will not be tolerated."

Mustadio let out an audible puff of relief, and then requested that a table also be brought forth. Once it was in place, he removed a pair of guns from the holsters on his ostentatious belt along with several other oddments. These included a large horn filled with black powder, a pile of what looked like iron marbles, a collection of paper scraps, and, oddest of all, what appeared to be a kettle, a small brazier, a collection of sticks with round red tips, a flask of an unidentified liquid, and a very dirty looking glass. He also removed what appeared to be a small rod from a cavity on the underside of each gun. These he arranged carefully before himself and Lollotte who, along with everyone else, regarded the strange collection with obvious perplexity. Once these had been arranged, and the targets had been set up, he first turned to Meliadoul and regarded her with a rakish smile that hinted at some unspoken secret. Then, he turned to Lollotte.

"Alright then," he said simply. "Let's see what you can do."

Trying, unsuccessfully, to conceal just how out of her depth she was when faced with this bizarre weapon and its inscrutable accessories, Lollotte snatched up the gun before her. Having never held a gun before, nor even seen how Balk had done so, she improvised by trying to grip and aim it as she would a crossbow and pointed it at her target. Those looking on drew in an anxious collective breath, some genuinely (if privately) fearful that the bullet thus discharged would, by some malevolent will of its own, spiral off its directed course and bury itself in some helpless onlooker's forehead. Others, very nearly anxious to see if these guns lived up to their reputations, of equal parts wonder and terror, wrung their hands as the seconds ticked by with agonizing slowness.

Then, Lollotte squeezed the trigger.

Some had been expected a great clap of thunder, others a belching of flames. A few expected piercing crystals of eldritch ice, still others expected a neat hole to be punched into the wood of the target, and some expected the target to be reduced to splinters.

None were expecting the gun to merely issue a dry click instead.

"It might help if you loaded it first," Mustadio pointed out, looking quite amused at this oversight.

Lollotte, neither accustomed to being made to look the fool nor enjoying it, fixed Mustadio with a glare that could blister paint.

"Perhaps you would care to enlighten me, boy?" she asked, her tone dripping with venom.

"I'd be delighted."

What happened next would be regarded by more than a few observers as something much akin to a stage magician dazzling an audience with mystical feats; though, being a man of science, Mustadio likely would've considered such an analogy as being insulting. Still, speaking to those gathered around him as much as to his opponent, he gathered a small measure of powder from the horn onto one of the scraps of paper, which he then tamped through his own gun's muzzle using the small rod, before similarly loading one the iron marbles, or "bullets". Afterward, another small measure of powder was added to what appeared to be a tiny bowl on the side of the gun, which he then snapped securely shut.

Then, doing a credible imitation of Lollotte's condescending glare, he challenged her to duplicate his success.

This turned out to be much harder than any, save perhaps Mustadio and his lady, had likely foreseen. Several times, Mustadio judged her to have used the wrong amount of gunpowder, which would either cause the bullet to fall short of its target or for the gun to explode in her hand. Ultimately, he deemed her work to be "adequate", and beckoned for her to fire.

This time, pulling the trigger did indeed unleash a great clap of thunder. As several people clapped their hands over their ears, perplexed as to why the ringing persisted regardless, they noticed that the gun Lollotte fired had kicked up wildly in her grasp and sent her toppling over backwards.

She looked livid at this humiliation and, judging by the sly grin on his face, Mustadio had not only anticipated this, but had been counting on it.

After directing for her to load again, he talked her through how to brace herself against this strange force, which he referred to as "recoil", and then directed for her to shoot again.

"You act as if you wrote the book on these…these confounded contraptions!" Lollotte snarled as she made several attempts to hit her target, only for the bullseye to seemingly repel her every shot.

"That's because I _did_ write the book on them," Mustadio said, fishing a small tome out of one of his many satchels and offering it to the ever-fuming Templar. "Here, have a copy on me. Fair warning, though; I'll charge if you want it autographed."

Though more than a few present were well aware that the Knights Templar were deadly and implacable foes, the sight of one of them being made to look the fool by the boyish faced machinist had slowly but surely undone the reserve, and the caution, of several onlookers. Many of these burst into laughter, others watched in fascination as Mustadio's ongoing explanation seemed to demystify the mystical, which seemed a mystic feat in and of itself.

And, everyone else was unhappily preoccupied with that blasted ringing in their ears that refused to go away.

After Lollotte had managed to successfully load the gun unassisted and apparently had a firm grasp of the stance – though this hadn't stopped Mustadio from sharing a conspiratorial glance with Meliadoul before examining Lollotte's handiwork and declaring that he'd seen better – she once more fired at her target…and instead shattered one of the stained-glass windows. Judging by the expression of horror on the castle steward's face, the window was either old or expensive. Maybe both.

After this, Mustadio demonstrated an apparent technique for determining one's dominant eye, followed by how closing the nondominant eye while aiming proved beneficial to accuracy. Several curious onlookers pantomimed his method and, in so doing, found that some two thirds of their number where right-eye dominant. No less odd, some even reported that neither of their eyes seemed dominant over the other.

This was followed by a treatise on how to use the notch on the prow of the weapon, the gunsight, to approximate where the bullet would land.

Lollotte, who looked like she'd much rather be shooting at the machinist than a hunk of wood, managed to land a bullet in the middle ring of the target, a hairsbreadth from the bullseye.

"Not bad," Mustadio opined dryly, his forehead suddenly furrowing as though he wanted to say more but wasn't certain what. Ultimately, he shook himself back to attention and, seeing Lollotte skillfully, if angrily, reloading her gun he blurted out "STOP!"

Most within earshot were startled by the sudden outburst, and more than a few of those who felt they'd aged a year with each round fired suddenly wondered if now was the time to stampede for the nearest exit. By way of explanation, Mustadio plucked the gun from Lollotte's hand and removed the metal tube which had accepted the powder and bullets. Perhaps noticing the curious stares, Mustadio gave a barely visible grin and held up the tube, later described as the "gun barrel", for them to see.

Much to their surprise, it was filled with some sort of corrosion that had several cringing.

"That," the machinist began, "is called fouling. It builds up a little every time you fire a gun. You know what happens when you don't maintain your sword and armor? Well, if you don't maintain your gun, it's even worse because letting the fouling build up will cause it become less accurate, to misfire, or even to explode. Usually, you need to disassemble the gun and scour the barrel to get rid of it. But, a little chemistry can speed things along."

So saying, he poured the unidentified liquid into the kettle and placed it on the brazier. He then took one of the sticks with the round red tips. A few amongst the audience were aware of these. Known as "matches", they were reportedly coated with a material that would ignite, given enough friction. Those few who'd used these curious inventions, however, recalled that they'd needed to strike them against a rough surface in order to summon the flames, and could see nothing that would suffice amongst the machinist's oddments.

When Mustadio managed the conjuration with a flick of his thumbnail, they were suitably impressed.

For a split-second, the machinist seemed almost bashful under their gazes, but then, seemingly with an effort, he pieced together a cocky look, as though he enjoyed but half expected such a reaction, and then lit the brazier.

Apparently, not even machinists were above the folklore regarding watched pots, for he passed the intervening minutes while the kettle simmered by asking who amongst the audience heard a ringing in their ears. Once several astonished guests admitted to such, the machinist went on to explain that this was a side effect of gunfire, though who was affected and for how long varied for reasons which had yet to be discerned. He did advise, however, that though the ringing was likely to subside in due time or could be treated using white magic, it was necessary to mitigate the effect where possible. He dovetailed this by removing two balls of wax from his ears, which he'd apparently placed surreptitiously before the duel began. Moments after this latest surprise, the kettle screamed and, placing the barrel over the dirty glass, he poured the contents of the kettle into the barrel. Hissing, fizzing, and even steaming, the liquid, which was clearly of a different color now than it had been beforehand, made its way through the barrel and into the dirty glass.

Now, when the machinist held up the barrel, the audience could see that its interior had been scoured clean of filth and gleamed in the torchlight.

Mustadio promptly reattached the barrel to the rest of the gun and, saying that he felt Lollotte was ready for the true contest, gestured for her to proceed.

"We'll each take three shots," he instructed. "The bullseye is worth ten points, the inner ring worth five, and the other ring worth one. Whoever scores the highest wins the duel."

Those who'd noticed Dame Lollotte throughout this ongoing barrage of astonishments, and not many had, could readily discern that she shared neither their delight at the machinist's tricks nor their amusement at her impromptu demotion to something akin to a stage magician's lovely assistant. It was also palpable just how much she regretted allowing her opponent the choice of weapon, thus forcing her to participate in this circus of a duel.

Some wondered if she might decide she'd rather shoot at Mustadio's head than a painted bullseye, and whether she'd end up hitting someone else's head if she tried it.

Still, somehow, the fuming Templar mastered herself, took aim, and fired. Her first bullet hit the inner ring, scoring five points. Twice she reloaded and fired, hitting the inner ring for another five points and then a bullseye, bringing her score to twenty.

"You're good," Mustadio opined, sounding genuinely impressed.

Then, almost as though suddenly remembering something he'd overlooked, his almost amicable expression became an almost cocky smirk as he promptly fired his three rounds, scoring three bullseyes and a perfect score of thirty.

"But, I'm better," he finished, the self-assertive tone sounding almost awkward as it passed his lips.

Though some still wondered at this curious behavior, most had found his display of marksmanship to be most impressive, and the expertise he'd displayed with the workings of his guns had more than a few wondering where other copies of his book might be purchased.

One or two had been tempted to ask if Lollotte might part with the copy she'd been "given", but the livid expression of nigh-feral hatred on her face promptly changed their minds.

"Master Mustadio had won his duel, and the honor of Dame Meliadoul Tingel has been upheld," Delita intoned, offering a sliver of an approving nod to the suddenly self-conscious machinist. "Now that that's over, I believe it's time for the waltz to resume. Master conductor, if you please?"

Sensing that this particular drama had reached its conclusion, though it would likely be making the rounds in Lesalia's infamous gossip circles for weeks, the guests promptly made ready to resume their aborted dance. Though many had discovered ample fascination with the machinist's display, wondering at both the man and his contemporaries as much as about his craft, others sagged with relief at the sight of the noisome and dangerous contraptions being holstered, some genuinely feeling they'd aged years in just those few minutes.

But, as often happened, and was the greatest delight amongst such insatiable lovers of canards and tidbits, the unexpected happened.

"I protest!" Lollotte shouted, and her outburst already had fevered speculations running rampant. "That was not a fair duel, and Dame Meliadoul has done nothing to prove herself no coward!"

The renewed excitement in the air was palpable.

Granted, because Mustadio had championed Meliadoul in the duel, and won, the chivalric code did say that that was the end of the matter. Though it was far from unheard-of, it was considered bad form for a knight and/or noble who'd lost a duel to persist in either challenge or accusation. But, then again, what could possibly delight a room full of gossips more than such a show of impropriety?

That quintessentially rhetorical question promptly gave way to one nearly as unanswerable, namely whether Lollotte would've taken her defeat more gracefully had she been defeated in a more conventional contest of arms. Not many believed so, as Dame Lollotte was clearly a hot-blooded sort who had a sizable axe to grind and considered the rules of knightly conduct less important than her own vindication.

Some wondered if the threat of the king's disapproval might get the Templar to stay her hand and, as though sensing these thoughts, the king moved to intervene.

"Dame Lollotte," Delita said, with grave patience. "I respectfully remind you that your challenge to Dame Meliadoul's honor has been answered and, that by winning the duel, Master Mustadio has vindicated her."

Not many would gainsay the king. Indeed, it was not uncommon for people to privately liken such an act to breaking a mirror or walking under a ladder. Given that King Delita had practically pulled Ivalice back from the brink of ruin with his bare hands, most people, whether they were dazzled by his legend or daunted by it, regarded the act of contradicting him, especially over something as trivial as wounded pride, as being unsavory at best and potentially hazardous at worst.

But, then again, one did not join the auspicious ranks of the Knights Templar by being like "most people", and not many wounds ached for a knight the way wounded pride did.

It galled, it itched, it bled. It festered. And, for more than a few, it, much like poison or infection, could cut short life if allowed to work its will unopposed.

"I came here to prove Dame Meliadoul a coward, not to shoot marbles with her boy-toy," Lollotte intoned acidly.

"They're called 'bullets' and…hey!" Mustadio blurted as her words belatedly sank in.

His petulant reaction triggered a heartbeat worth of mirth, but what laughter might've escaped tensely silent mouths was promptly swallowed when Lollotte, pointedly ignoring Delita, circled around the protesting monarch and marched towards Meliadoul.

If the irate Templar was expecting the divine knight to be alarmed or even startled at this imminent confrontation, then she was disappointed.

Aside from a flicker of disappointment and disapproval, Meliadoul barely reacted at all as Lollotte stomped in her direction.

Whether this explained what Lollotte did next or whether it was simply to give sufficient insult to warrant another duel, and with her intended opponent this time, none could say. Regardless, Lollotte slipped one hand free from her gauntlet and delivered a resounding backhand to Meliadoul's cheek.

"I will have proof of your cowardice and unfitness to wear the golden armor of the Knights Templar, and I will have satisfaction for the insults you and your grease monkey have heaped upon me," she growled, looking for all the world like a lioness eager to rend her prey to pieces.

Yet, Meliadoul regarded her with coy amusement and a seeming eagerness to see this opponent bested for a second time.

"You'll have to hit me a lot harder than that to get it," she intoned, smiling in spite of the reddening flesh on her cheek.

This apparent confidence had apparently come as a surprise to Lollotte, though she quickly shook it off, drew back a few paces, and drew her knight's sword.

By some capricious whimsy of fate, the blade Lollotte had drawn was Save the Queen, a sibling to the lady knight's sword which had served Meliadoul admirably ever since she was inducted into the Knights Templar. There was no mistaking the light coral coloration of the _forte_ and fuller, the ivy like tendrils that formed the handguard, the distinct way the blade narrowed at its midpoint, angled outward into a diamond of steel, and narrowed once more before spreading to its original width as it neared the tip.

Lollotte, it seemed, sought not only to best Meliadoul but to essentially do so with the divine knight's own weapon.

This irony was not lost upon the now chattering audience any more than it was on either competitor; and, indeed, all parties concerned regarded this as a selling point to the imminent confrontation.

With an indrawn breath, the divine knight thrust one hand outward, beckoning the excited gawkers.

"A sword! A sword!" Meliadoul beckoned with surprising calm. "My next dance for a-Oh! Thank you, Mustadio."

The machinist, who'd hastily plucked the cutlass from his belt and thrust its grip into Meliadoul's hand, drew back sheepishly, scratching at the back of his head from the small praise. Then, almost as though some unheard voice had whispered something in his ear, he stood up straight and, after a moment's indecision, gave an admirable attempt at a dashing smile followed by a casual salute.

This peculiar duality, of a bright-eyed young man on the one hand and the facsimile of a suave corsair on the other, had had several onlookers perplexed from the first but, once again, their gaze was inevitably drawn back to the divine knight. Inspecting the cutlass, she took a few practice swings to acquaint herself with the weight, length, and balance of the weapon. Those with a clear view could discern not only the casual ease with which the divine knight practiced her slashes and thrusts, but those who were knowledgeable about such things could also see that, though the cutlass was as ostentatious as the rest of Mustadio's ensemble, it was nonetheless a weapon of fine craftsmanship.

Though at least a few had expected the weapon to be a showpiece, and therefore as dull as a spoon, while others half expected it to be made of wood, none could miss how the flickering light played about the keen edge of the curving blade. The grip, though serviceable, had more than enough ostentation to make up for the inherent and simple utility of the blade. Gleaming like gold, it subtly curved away from the palm for more precise blade control while corrugations on the inward side offered a sure grip for the wielder's fingers. A handguard, composed of deceptively fragile filaments of gold, wound from the hilt to the pommel from the same side as the blade while golden arches looped from the either side of the hilt to form an added layer of protection against foes who sought to claim victory by claiming a few fingers from the opponent's sword hand. The weapon was rounded out by the lone quillion, opposite the blade, which gradually curved upwards until it resembled a coyly arcing tongue that might act as an uncouth signal to a potential playmate in libidinous games.

The weapon, much like the young man who'd handed it to his lady, was a study in contrasts. In the blade, one saw earnest functionality while, in the grip, one could see a concerted effort to catch the eye, to arrest one's attention, and to ensnare lingering glances as one tracked the swagger of one who was not merely confident in their charms but flaunted them with casual ease and poise.

More than a few found this an odd combination, as odd as Mustadio himself could be at times, but, as Mustadio himself had demonstrated, such a bizarre union could not only work but could apparently be quite charming.

His lady certainly seemed to think so, for she favored her unlikely escort with a small smile and a nod that, in turn, caused a very big, and very stupid looking, smile to form on Mustadio's face.

Apparently finding the cutlass to her liking, Meliadoul slipped off her shoes. She yanked off her stockings, stuffed them inside the slippers and then, in a show of seeming carelessness that would make the rounds in Lesalian gossip circles of days, kicked them into the audience. Since they appeared to have been made of glass, those nearest expected them to shatter against the hard marble of the floor and were quick to shield their eyes against the expected hail of jagged shards. Much to their amazement, the adamantoise shell footwear came away unmarred, skittering into the audience until they were lost amidst a forest of silken trousers, flared gowns, glossy leather boots, and elegant heeled shoes. Taking a moment to acquaint herself with the coolness and subtle slippage of the marble beneath her bare feet, Meliadoul assumed a stance then eyed Lollotte.

For a long moment, neither combatant moved.

Perhaps, given that Meliadoul's borrowed cutlass was noticeably shorter than Lollotte's Save the Queen, the Templar had expected the divine knight to try and quickly close the distance, yet Meliadoul only continued to regard her opponent with calm, calculating eyes.

Lollotte, however, was anything but calm.

After Mustadio had made a mockery of her challenge, Lollotte was thoroughly scandalized and hungry for revenge. And, if vengeance would not come to her, she would go to it.

With a piercing shriek, she lunged forward, her sword drawn up and over her shoulder for the kill. Quickly sidestepping the charge, Meliadoul caught her opponent's blade on the edge of her own, comparatively slender weapon. More than a few onlookers had expected her cutlass to snap under the weight of the heavier knight sword, especially when the latter was swung with such vicious force. However, it seemed Meliadoul had also realized this distinct possibility and had planned accordingly, not seeking to stop the falling blade but to deflect it, sending it skidding down the edge of the cutlass rather than boring down upon it. In a spray of sparks, Lollotte pitched forward as Meliadoul skittered to one side. Many onlookers suspected that the divine knight would seize upon the opening and claim victory then and there…

…yet, Meliadoul simply stood her ground, allowing Lollotte to regain her footing and turn to face her opponent once more.

If Lollotte was perplexed by this display, she betrayed no sign. Indeed, rather than confusion, she exuded only incredulity and was quick to resume her attack. Rather than charging in, she opted to close the distance and unleash a chain of thrusts and slashes, using her advantage in reach to both repel Meliadoul's advances as well as to reach for her whenever the divine knight, forced to move to within the Templar's grasp in order to attack, dared strike back…

…yet, curiously, it seemed that the divine knight would not oblige this unspoken wish, for she kept just beyond the point of the Templar's sword, almost playfully swatting it away with the flat of her blade. Most she deflected in this fashion, others she evaded by whirling out of the way of the whistling blade, spinning gracefully as though their bout had become a deadly waltz.

Ultimately, Lollotte's blade managed to catch Meliadoul's, with such force that the divine knight's hairpins were dislodged from her bun and her auburn tresses cascaded to her shoulders amidst a hail of golden needles. Sensing her advantage, the Templar bore down with all her might as a feral grin split open her face.

"Your moves are too predictable, your attacks too weak," Lollotte sneered between gasps of exertion. "No wonder you fled like a coward, abandoning your brother and father to death!"

This blatant insult had caused low ripple of chatter to spread amongst the onlookers, though only a few could hear it over the clashing of steel and the thunder of blood in their ears. Mustadio, who seemed quite furious with this accusation, seemed keen to voice his displeasure.

With his gun.

Once more, King Delita intervened, snatching at the machinist's shoulder and yanking him back from the clashing swordswomen. He did, however, offer the incensed young man a reassuring, if sly, grin, as though he had divined that something was about to happen which would, once again, turn this contest on its head.

"I am no coward," Meliadoul intoned, curiously sounding far less winded than her opponent.

"No?" Lollotte asked, not bothering to hide either her skepticism or her derision. "Maybe you should take the pains to prove it!"


	31. Fighting Together, Mending Together

With Lollotte looming over Meliadoul, the divine knight trapped beneath the Templar's longer, heavier blade and buckling under her foe's assault, the audience was very much convinced that whatever skill or courage the divine knight might bring to bear would surely be in vain, and her honor sullied by this imminent defeat.

Meliadoul, however, seemed to disagree.

"Well, if you say so," she intoned with an almost playful air.

Perhaps Lollotte was surprised by, and suspicious of, this strange flippancy, or maybe she was merely angered by it. Whichever might've been the case, however, promptly became irrelevant as Meliadoul, once more slipping free of her opponent's blade, suddenly leapt into the air, so high that she'd seemingly vanished.

Stunned, Lollotte turned her gaze skyward just in time to see the divine knight descending toward her, cutlass angled for the kill. Only a desperate whirl to one side had caused the tip of the blade to scour her shoulder pauldron rather than her face.

Meliadoul, not nearly as perturbed by her impromptu flight, quickly tucked into a roll, sprang to her feet, and spun around to face her enemy. Startled by the near-miss, not to mention the divine knight's inexplicably adopting the aerobatics favored by dragoons and her late brother, the Templar seemed leery at the idea of another frontal assault.

Meliadoul, by contrast, went on the offensive.

Surprised by this unlikely assault, Lollotte brought up her blade to meet the attack. However, since Meliadoul was able to swiftly close the distance, her seemingly rash actions had deprived Lollotte of her key advantage. The two opponents were now fighting nearly chest to chest and, at such close range, the Templar's ability to use her longer blade was hampered. The knight's sword's great length and weight made it an ideal weapon for fighting at medium range, preventing the opponent from advancing as well as smashing down their defenses in a great show of strength. An opponent with a shorter weapon was at a keen disadvantage in such a fight, since attacking at all meant drawing well within range of the opponent and running the risk of taking a blow long before being able to deliver one in kind.

Yet, in managing the close the distance, the balance of the engagement had shifted. Lollotte could no longer draw back her blade to thrust, nor bring her blade over one shoulder for a slash that would cut many a foe in half, not with her opponent so close. And, since her blade was much heavier than Meliadoul's cutlass, the initiative now seemed firmly in the divine knight's hands.

And, she seemed keen to make good use of it.

Though Melidoul was also constrained by her close proximity to Lollotte, she compensated by using quick, precise jabs with her cutlass as she probed her enemy for openings in her still robust defense.

Though lacking the room needed to counter – and, indeed, the speed, since her couters, rerebraces, vambraces, and gauntlets offered robust protection from shoulder to fingertips, but also meant that her arms weren't nearly as fast as Meliadoul's bare arms and unencumbered hands – the Templar was able to knock aside the divine knight's attacks by using small, controlled swings.

Still, even a well-trained sword arm couldn't keep that up forever, even with the offhand brought in for support. But, when Meliadoul turned from the one-handed jabs favored by knights and squires to the doublehanded slices commonly used by samurai, and unleashed a whistling downward cut at Lollotte's head, the desperate Templar saw an opportunity.

And, she was in no position to refuse.

Catching the falling blade with her own sword at a particular angle, she quickly slid her Save the Queen out from beneath her foe's cutlass. As the two grinding blades parted company, Save the Queen, no longer encumbered by the resistance, shot forward, its pommel smashing into Meliadoul's shoulder and sending her sliding backwards.

Though surprised that the blow hadn't dislocated Meliadoul's shoulder, nor even knocked her off her feet, Lollotte was nonetheless free to bring her blade to bear. Still, now painfully aware that her foe had some surprising new tricks up her (metaphorical) sleeve, the Templar decided she'd best revise her tactics. If, for instance, Meliadoul once more closed the distance, it would be best if Lollotte had a weapon better suited to fighting in close quarters, such as the platinum dagger that was on her belt…

…"was" being the operative word for, when her free hand groped about for the hilt, she discovered only an empty sheath.

"Looking for this?" Meliadoul asked coyly.

Lollotte's eyes, already pulsing wide in shock, nearly popped out of her skull when she turned to the divine knight and saw her tossing the dagger in the air and catching it with the sort of casual dexterity one might expect of a thief or ninja…which, upon reflection, might explain just how she'd managed to steal the dagger off of Lollotte's belt without the Templar even realizing it. Apparently, Meliadoul's efforts to expand her repertoire had not been confined to learning the aerial combat arts of dragoons and knightblades.

And, this point was accentuated when she took the dagger in her offhand, held in a reverse grip for plunging and raking blows from above, while wielding the cutlass in a low guard suited to low belly cuts delivered from below.

Lollotte could feel her throat constrict in anxious bewilderment. This was wildly different from the styles of swordsmanship practiced by the Knights Templar and, though it was not unheard-of for Ivalice's defenders to choose one vocation and mix in select skills of another to create a unique warrior, the practice had fallen by the wayside amidst the unrelenting attrition of more than a half century of war, the urgency of replacing fallen knights and soldiers too pressing to allow time for such exhaustive training.

Yet, here was a divine knight who was not only well known as being masterful at her chosen vocation but who had learned, and incorporated, the dragoon's ability to vault into the air and strike from above, the thief's ability to plunder the pockets of an enemy even in the midst of combat, a samurai's proficiency with the doublehanded grip, and a ninja's skill at fighting two handed, even with mismatched weapons.

Lollotte tried, unsuccessfully, to envision the time, the dedication, the _sheer amount of practice_ , that must've gone into developing such skill on top of the already demanding regimen of a divine knight and, loathe though she was to betray so much as a hint of such, she found herself afraid.

Yet, even amidst her fear and befuddlement, a sliver of amazement managed to creep in as Lollotte desperately strove to fend off attacks from the two weapons which constantly changed direction, and even changed hands, never allowing half a breath with which to discern what form the next attack might take, let alone how to thwart it.

If all of Ivalice's defenders had fought the way Meliadoul did now, then the Fifty Years War might've been the Fifty Days War instead, and ended far differently.

The divine knight, it seemed, had caught wind of what Lollotte sought to conceal, for a delighted smile tugged at the corners of her lips even as she huffed and puffed more out of excitement than exertion.

"Adaptability is the key to victory in battle," she intoned, almost sagely. "To learn many skills, and to apply them deftly, and to use as many of them as you can so that your enemy never has the chance to riddle you out makes one great warrior worth many of his lesser brethren just as surely as are well-trained and well-equipped troops."

Meliadoul promptly dovetailed this point by catching Lollotte's blade in a cross between dagger and cutlass, a technique rare even with matched blades and hitherto unknown for use between mismatched weapons. Though neither weapon could contend with the sheer strength and weight of Save the Queen, using them in tandem once more turned the expected on its head. Desperate to reclaim her blade and, with it, even half a chance of winning this duel before it became a second humiliation, Lollotte tugged and twisted, frantically bending her sinewy arms to her frantic labor.

Yet, Meliadoul's odd pair of blades kept Save the Queen thoroughly in captivity.

"If knowledge is power, then to be unknowable is to be unbeatable," the divine knight proclaimed, her tone deepening into finality. "That, I learned in the war, and I was taught by the best."

After imparting this wisdom, Meliadoul ferociously twisted her wrists, yanking the trio of locked blades to her left and then the scissored blades uncrossed. As the startled Lollotte pitched forward, the divine knight swung her elbow into the Templar's face with bone crunching force. Lollotte's eyes teared up from the pain, and her nose would likely need lengthy ministrations from a white mage, but this did not stop the now thoroughly enraged Templar from delivering a blow to Meliadoul's abdomen with her gauntleted fist.

Most opponents would've passed out from such a blow, many would've been knocked clean off their feet, and others would've come away coughing up blood.

But, as was aforementioned, one did not earn a place amongst the Knights Templar by being like "most people".

One who sought to join the Knights Templar was expected, amongst other things, to prove him or herself through a rigorous training regimen designed to hone the body until flesh and sinew seemed more akin to a second set of steel armor.

Lesser warriors who tried to use Lollotte's tactic on an unarmored Templar, and lived to tell about it, were often quoted as saying that punching a mountain would've been less painful.

Though Meliadoul skidded backwards from the impact, and came away hacking and massaging her stomach, she seemed very much still in the fight.

Not wanting to give the divine knight a chance to recover, Lollotte charged in. She was wheezing and her brow was bespangled with perspiration from the intense combat, but she still had enough strength in her for one last ditch effort to win the bout, to uphold her honor and win back her pride.

This singular, desperate goal caused the world to contract around her, obscuring and then erasing all save her opponent. She saw nothing of the opulent ballroom, the gawking audience, the decadent food and drink…

…or the dagger flying pommel first at her forehead.

That the small blade did not instead land blade first and bury itself to the hilt in her brains, nor the pommel strike hard enough to cave in the skull, and whether providence or skill on Meliadoul's part had seen such a thing happen, inspired fevered speculation amongst Leslian gossip circles for months.

The Templar, however, was in no position to ponder such things, or much else for that matter. Her armored boots seemingly flew out from under her while Save the Queen whirled free of her exhausted grasp. She crashed to the floor amidst a great clatter of metal, and her vision cleared just in time to see Meliadoul, snatching Lollotte's blade out of the air and then leveling it at the fallen Templar's face.

"I also sling a mean gun these days," she quipped, turning to Mustadio and pursing her lips in his direction. "Again, I was taught by the best."

After this upset victory to conclude a duel that seemed rife with astonishments, most of the onlookers could only gape in slack jawed stupefaction…with the conspicuous exception of Mustadio, who was blushing and grinning like an idiot before he caught himself and tried grinning, with limited success, like some manner of a dashing dandy, and several near him who were nudging him with their elbows and winking in a suggestive manner.

Regardless, though none present had ever seen such a spectacular or unconventional duel, be it fought with guns or blades, all could agree that they'd witnessed a bout for the ages and that Meliadoul's honor and courage and been proven and vindicated handily. Twice.

Though there were those who were conscious of the fact that this provided no explanation for Meliadoul's peculiar absence during those battles in which the Knights Templar had been mysteriously decimated, nor had the divine knight offered any denial, and that this did not truly disprove the accusation of desertion, all could agree that one point had been unimpeachably proven.

Dame Meliadoul Tingel was no coward.

For how could a coward fight so skillfully and spectacularly? How could a coward prove equal to the challenge of learning, mastering, and using such a varied set of skills and weave them together for use in battle? How could a coward even muster the will to try?

In later times, some might ask what Meliadoul had been doing during her as-yet unexplained absence and, though the inevitabilities of Lesalian gossip made fanciful and implausible speculations a certainty, it was doubtful that even the most irrational gossip would entertain the idea that such a gallant swordswoman had been absent out of fear.

Soon, astonishment became awe and, alone, then in pairs, and then by the dozens, the audience broke into thunderous applause and cheering for the victor. Master Mustadio, Lady Agrias, Duke Malak, Duchess Rafa, Sir Rad, Dame Alicia, Dame Lavian, and King Delita's applause being particularly thunderous.

Comparatively unnoticed, Lollotte looked as though her world had come to an end…which, in a manner of speaking, wasn't far from the truth.

Her expression one of grim resignation that thinly veiled bleak despair, Lollotte rose to a kneeling position and lowered her gaze, bowing her neck as would the condemned before the executioner's axe…

…and, this pose was far from incidental.

Dame Lollotte had leveled horrendous accusations of cowardice, desertion, and treason against a superior officer; and before a ballroom crammed with nobles, foreign dignitaries, and the _king_ , no less.

As the new commander of the Knights Templar, Meliadoul was fully within her rights to take Lollotte's head as punishment. And, not so long ago, she might very well have done just that.

Following the dread realization in the bowels of Limberry Castle that Ramza's seemingly mad story had been true – that her father's very soul had been evicted by a Lucavi demon from ancient scripture, and that demon had killed her younger brother – she'd also realized that the Church of Glabados and the Knights Templar to whom she'd pledged her sword, her faith, and her undying loyalty, who'd been her family as much as either of the then-surviving Tingels, had been corrupted. Not just by the evils of demonkind but by the evils of humanity, in their vainglorious ambition not only to subvert the monarchy and make clergymen into kings ruling from the shadows, but in sowing and reaping crops of poverty and misery to enflame the already downtrodden and frustrated populace to support this unspoken coup and unwittingly reward their tormentors with the spoils of kingship.

And, all of _that_ was on top of finding out the Zodiac Stones, the "holy" relics, were demonic and that Saint Glabados, to whom she'd prayed by night since she'd learned to talk, was also a demon fraudulently passing himself off as a Savior and Son of God.

 _Wait, was Ajora a man or a woman?_ Meliadoul suddenly found herself wondering. _Maybe it was due to having possessed Alma, but Ajora certainly looked…_ buxom _. No, getting distracted here._

These revelations had caused something in Meliadoul to gutter out. Perhaps it was her ability to smile, to laugh, to make witty rejoinders. Or, maybe it was her ability to feel empathy, to be inclined to show mercy to her foes or encouragement to those who were downhearted. Whatever the reason, she'd become cold and severe during her time amongst Ramza's band. She was curt and aloof amongst her fellows and, to her foes, she was a figure born of nightmares.

Fearsome, implacable, mechanically inexorable, impossible powerful.

She was a machine of battle possessing the cold precision of one of the Construct-class automatons in the Ivalice of antiquity, coupled with the merciless ferocity of a cyclone.

That, and the enemies to be fought, had been enough to allow her to muzzle her grief for a time but, eventually, all her foes were dead or subdued. Realizing this, as well as that she had practically nothing to go back to in Ivalice and that none of her myriad foes had proven equal to the task of ending her now bleak life, she'd tried to do so by her own hand.

Was it Mustadio's intervention, and the subsequent realization that someone cared enough about her to stop her from killing herself, that had brought her out of her affliction of fatalism? Or, was it the later realization that, amongst Ramza Beoulve's eclectic band of outcasts, she had a larger family than she'd believed? It might've been the machinist's bumbling attempts to convey his budding affections with a regifted, but still ludicrously expensive, trifle and, later, by barging into her house and giving her a stern lecture about how many others bore wounds much akin to hers and not only endured theirs but were eager to help her heal as they'd helped one another.

Whatever the cause, that which had guttered out had ultimately been kindled back to life.

It was entirely possible that Lollotte had instigated this duel in order to replace Meliadoul as head of the Knights Templar, using the divine knight's absence from the most disastrous of the order's recent battles as justification for her ambitions. It was just as likely that Lollotte had no idea what devilry had been worked behind the curtain of the war as, indeed, Meliadoul hadn't known, and might never have if chance had not seen fit to have her attempted attack on Ramza and company from behind occur just in time to see Marquis Elmdor transform into the Lucavi demon Zalera.

Which reason it might be was unknowable. But, what Meliadoul did know was that, even well aware such an act might invite ingratitude, or even future reprisal, she wanted, sincerely wanted, to give Lollotte another chance.

Lollotte was far less than perfect, but she was a good warrior and a good Templar. She might even be a good person.

Ivalice could afford to waste none of these, not after the terrible carnage which characterized the War of the Lions.

The divine knight would not take the head of her erstwhile sister-in-arms.

Instead, she let her opponent's sword fall to the floor with a clatter.

"I return your sword," she said with solemnity. "Take it, and next time, put it to better use."

Raising her wide, staring eyes at this declaration, Lollotte regarded Meliadoul in mute bewilderment for a long moment until, a seeing no sign of the divine knight reconsidering her mercy, she took her sword and rose. After sheathing the blade, and doing likewise with the dagger that she'd spent several minutes dodging, she pooled what dignity remained to her in a solemn bow of respect and obeisance before her superior and departed.

It was a moment which had flabbergasted, and impressed, many onlookers and which some amongst their number hoped would ultimately teach Lollotte the patience, respect, and humility that was as much a part of being a warrior as feats of arms or courage…

…which was promptly ruined when the castle's steward shouted at the departing Templar that he'd send her a bill for the stained glass window she'd shot out.

After some spluttering laughter, and a second bout of cheering for the victor's magnanimous gesture, Mustadio approached Meliadoul, who promptly favored him by allowing the warrior/machinist to kiss her hand.

It was not lost on the audience, and certainly not Mustadio himself, that she turned her hand to allow his lips to press into her palm, a gesture normally reserved for lovers.

Granted, the idea that these two were "normal" had been discarded some time ago, but the now furiously wagging tongues found this latest morsel simply too delectable and lapped it up with great fervor.

"You were incredible, Melia," Mustadio intoned with boyish delight before his tone abruptly shifted. "I mean, I know better than to find that surprising, but you really got my heart pounding back there."

The divine knight replied with a very pretty smile that, those closest would swear, had Mustadio tugging at his collar.

"Why thank you, kind sir," she intoned coyly as she returned Mustadio's cutlass and watched, amused, as he suddenly found the task of getting it back into its sheath to be somewhat complicated. "Now, if I'm mistaken, I owe you a dance. But first, I must beg a small favor."

"Anything," Mustadio replied, sounding as though he'd snatch the moon out of the sky if she but asked and quite oblivious to several onlookers whispering the phrase "famous last words".

"Find my shoes."

Startled by this reply, the warrior/machinist blinked in astonishment for a moment before glancing down at Meliadoul's feet, her slender toes curling from the chill of the marble. Suddenly aware of the downright contagious snickering that now wended its way through the ballroom, the now red faced Mustadio uttered something that sounded vaguely like "Erm, right away" and began trying to navigate the veritable forest of silks to find the missing adamantoise shell shoes.

**SSSSSS**

It was a rare occurrence for Agrias to do this, but such a comic ending to the excitement of the evening was more than enough to have her laughing. Though more than a few of those around her looked near to fainting with their mirth, hers was a quieter, but still merry chortle that bubbled up from the belly and would've carried a fair distance had it not been so thoroughly drowned out by her fellow merrymakers.

Still, even that much would've raised an eyebrow or two back during her days amongst the Lionsguard. The daughter of a long line of knights, sword and spurs passed down from venerable parent to worthiest child for centuries, her sunny days of childhood had been as fleeting as the twilight, and days spent picking flowers and watching the clouds with her friends quickly gave way to long mornings polishing armor, lengthy afternoons practicing swordplay, and sleepless nights observing the vigil-at-arms.

It had not been a carefree childhood, nor a particularly happy one. Eventually, flowers and watching clouds lost its appeal and, much as her calloused hands grew numb to the cold steel of her sword's grip, her heart hardened and tears once shed out of exhaustion or sadness dried up. But, she had excelled in her unforgiving vocation, earning top honors from her superiors and, ultimately, the post of bodyguard to then-Princess Ovelia.

Meeting Ovelia had caused some of the ice about her heart to crack as, little by little, she came to regard the innocent girl as more than her charge. At first, it was concern that the girl was too trusting and too ignorant of the harsh realities of the world to survive in the nest of cruel intrigue that was Lesalia. Later, incredulity at being asked to sit still while Ovelia wove flowers into Agrias's hair turned into begrudging tolerance and, later, reluctant acceptance.

It hadn't taken Agrias long to realize the logic (a term that fit these events awkwardly at best) behind this behavior.

Ovelia might have needed a bodyguard, as the Princess of Ivalice and a likely successor to the throne. But, as a person, she needed a friend.

At the time, Agrias didn't understand why Ovelia hadn't conscripted the much friendlier and more open Alicia and Lavian to this service. But then. After the Murry twins had found a ready playmate in Rad and their rude games became the afternoon entertainment for the band of outcasts, Ovelia's choice seemed to make more sense…

…as did the "phase" where, for several weeks after a conversation with Alicia and Lavian behind closed doors, the then-princess would turn as red as a beet when faced with any man younger than the elderly Father Simon. Nonetheless, the holy knight had gritted her teeth (though less and less tightly as time went on) and acquiesced.

After all, Ovelia would make the acquaintance of more than enough nobles who sought her only to exploit her, and it would do her some good to have at least one who was unflinchingly on her side.

If meeting Ovelia had caused the ice to crack, then the chain of events set in motion by her abduction had melted it away altogether…and, for a time, she'd desperately wanted it back.

She worried over Ovelia while, at the same time, telling herself that she could not ignore a foe such as the Lucavi, who posed a dire threat to the very survival of the human race, to save just one person. She told herself that the revelation that the Church of Glabados had been founded on a fraudulent savior was merely leverage they could use against the corrupt church and that the sense of abandonment she felt was inconsequential by comparison.

She wanted to stop _feeling_. And, when her mutinous heart refused to cooperate, she sought something to make her forget.

Or, rather, someone.

Ramza had tried, with a comic lack of success, to hide his burgeoning affections for Agrias and, by then, she'd been forced to admit that he'd impressed her. So, one fateful night, she stole into his tent and asked him to help her forget.

She wanted a night of carnal pleasure to smother the pain. The pain of failure, of betrayal, of being helpless to save a girl who she'd come to love like a sister, and of being abandoned by church and God alike. She wanted Ramza, who obliged despite what remained of his former principles, to take the pain away.

Instead, he'd given her Rachel.

And, as unplanned and damnably inconvenient and downright stupid as it had been to get pregnant out of wedlock and in the middle of a war, Agrias would not have taken back that decision for anything.

Not when she had a loving husband at her side, an adorable daughter in her arms, and not when her once wintry heart had been graced by spring once again.

Though not nearly as boisterous as the echoing guffaws of the men, nor as feminine as the tittering giggles of the ladies, the simple act of finding cause to laugh, and savoring it, had done much to ease wounds, some old and others more recent, that had ached against her numb senses and bled invisibly.

Beyond that, however, she laughed because she was happy for Meliadoul.

Though her surprise pregnancy had precluded fighting alongside the divine knight, it had taken Agrias little time to see that Meliadoul was a magnificent fighter.

It had taken even less time to see how miserable Meliadoul was.

As wounded as Agrias had been by the betrayal of the church and her crisis of faith, it had not been coupled with losing her family. For Meliadoul, however, the future had seemed only darkness.

When she'd spied the divine knight arriving at the ball on Mustadio's arm, she almost didn't recognize either of them. And, aside from how the divine knight's swashbuckler fighting style had so contrasted with the straightforward, killing intent with which she'd fought in the War of the Lions, there had also been the brightness of her smile, the lightness in her steps as she'd danced with Mustadio and away from Lollotte, and the way she'd blushed when Delita had referred to her as "Mustadio's woman".

And, to top it all off, there had been the coyness with which she'd sent her man after her lost shoes, and how he'd complied with little more than a stutter of surprise.

Whatever the reason, the divine knight had rediscovered the happiness that had seemingly died with her family, and the holy knight's heart leapt at the sight.

She was also glad for Mustadio as well.

As had been the case with Ramza, her first impression of the machinist had been less-than-flattering. When they first encountered him in Zaland, and Ramza had given her a rather spectacular demonstration of how impetuous he could be when he saw someone in peril, Agrias had suspected their intervention would mean trouble. And, she'd been right.

She'd been leery enough that Mustadio was asking for their help in gaining an audience with Cardinal Draclau, even before he'd proven tight-lipped about the particulars. After all, Duke Larg and Queen Ruvelia were keen to have Ovelia and her small band of protectors killed and had the full might of the Hokuten with which to bring that wish to fruition. Meanwhile, Duke Goltana, having been framed for the attempted assassination, would be just as keen to have the Nanten take the heads of Ovelia's protectors in hopes of keeping his own.

The last – _the_ _very last_ – thing the small band needed was yet another pursuer, especially one as powerful as the Baert Trading Company.

Agrias had been used to making hard decisions, the sort that came across as cold-hearted to those who'd never been put in such an unenviable position to have to make such choices, and had been about to tell Mustadio that the band's priority was the princess's safety when the princess herself promptly took that option out of their hand by affirming that she would help the desperate machinist.

Agrias was certain that they would regret that decision and, although regrets had abounded from the War of the Lions the way weeds abounded in a neglected garden, deferring to Ovelia's wishes to help Mustadio was another decision she'd never take back.

Though Mustadio had, at first, seemed much akin to Ramza and his other former classmates from the Hokuten Academy – young, of limited experience, possessing much raw talent but too little good sense with which to use it properly – she'd been relieved to have been disproven on all counts. Despite his youth and his reacting to technology in much the same way a small child reacts to candy, Mustadio had proven himself a great ally. Not only had his understanding of ancient technology allowed him to activate Construct 8, turn Reis back into a human, summon Cloud with the strange orrery, and put a resurgence of the airship within reach, but his incredible marksmanship had protected their lives many a time just as surely as it had protected Meliadoul's honor but minutes ago.

The machinist was still a young man and, like Ramza, had made more than a few questionable decisions.

Even without her then-pregnancy wreaking havoc with her normally unflappable composure, Agrias had nearly popped a blood vessel when she learned that Mustadio had spent fifty thousand gil of the group's money on a tube of tynar rouge, which he couldn't even give to Agrias anyway since she and Ramza were already an expectant couple by the time the rouge had been delivered. But, judging by the ruby shade of Meliadoul's lips, that nonsensically overpriced bit of makeup had found another purpose.

In hindsight, the holy knight had to admit that all this impetuousness had turned out for the best.

Mustadio had been a wanted man even before he'd thrown in his lot with Ramza and his seemingly hopeless mission against the worst of mankind and demonkind alike.

Just two months ago, it had taken an intervention – an _armed_ intervention – to prevent Meliadoul from killing herself out of despair.

And yet, here they were, a couple, if not in love than soon-to-be, and the holy knight looked forward to what the future had in store for this oddest of the very odd couples.

Agrias snickered again as she recalled that, along with Mustadio and Meliadoul, she and Ramza were also far less than normal.

But, what did it matter?

What she and Ramza had was strange, was unconventional, was unique, and was wonderful.

Were she called upon to take up blade again to defend the family she'd unwittingly discovered, she would do so gladly.

Right now, she was getting a mischievous thrill as Mustadio was apparently testing the hypothesis that the missing slippers had skittered under a lady's skirt and that he needed to explore that possibility.

And, as was reportedly the wont of men of science, it seemed he was finding all the wrong answers before he found the right ones.

And yet, for all this, Meliadoul just laughed merrily at her unlikely escort and coyly encouraged him to persevere. Mustadio, apparently finding another dance with the divine knight worth all the slaps across the face he'd get (which would undoubtedly be many), continued his hunt for his lady's lost slippers.

"She has him so well-trained," she whispered, no less coyly, to Ramza.

Ordinarily, the Duke of Lionel would either shudder at the veiled implication that Mustadio's lot tonight would likely be Ramza's tomorrow. Or, he might opine that either he shared her delight or felt deep sympathy for Mustadio for being a bashful man subject to the whims of an independent woman. Perhaps both.

Now, however, he was silent.

"Drake?" Agrias asked, perplexity creeping into her previously merry tone.

The Duke of Lionel was still standing next to her, well away from the combat but with a perfect view. Yet, rather than tracking Mustadio's progress as the self-styled warrior/machinist hunted for the lost slippers, Ramza leaned against a pillar, his eyes fixed on the door through which Alma had departed some minutes before.

His arms were crossed and his brow was deeply furrowed, as though he had something quite weighty on his mind. And, now that Agrias thought about it, Ramza had not applauded Meliadoul's upset victory over Lollotte, which was glaringly out of character.

After calling to him several times had failed to rouse him from his reverie, she clapped a hand on his shoulder and he jumped as though she'd pricked him with a needle.

"Don't tell me you missed that whole thing," she said, more concern than shock in her words.

Characteristically, Ramza seemed sheepish at this, not terribly unlike a child who'd been caught daydreaming when he should've been attending to a school teacher's lecture.

"What is it?" Agrias asked, her inquisitive glance hardening when Ramza tried, ineffectually, to wave away her concerns.

"Well, it is something," he admitted, but quickly brought up his hands to forestall any questions or outbursts. "But! But, it might be good news, finally."

"I could always use some of that."

"Well…I really think I ought to tell you in private. Too many people listening in here."

That was hardly the response that Agrias wanted, but something else she'd gained from her unexpected motherhood was a new and deeper sense of patience. At times, Ramza might seem impulsive, too quick to thoughtlessly jump into the fray when he saw the defenseless in peril. But having a wife, a child, a sister, and an unborn niece or nephew to think of had done much to temper his courage with good judgement and hard-won wisdom.

Ill-timed her conception might have been, but Rachel had taught both of them a great deal.

Agrias had been meditatively stroking her belly, recalling how she'd learned several such lessons when Rachel had been restless in her womb, when Ramza spoke up once more.

"Are you still hungry?" he asked, a hint of disbelief in his tone. "You might want to be careful, that dress is looking a bit tight on you."

The holy knight's eyes pulsed wide at this comment, and then drew narrow as her husband's comments inspired some less-than-pious sentiments. Her expression promptly inspired him to issue a sound much akin to an "eep!" followed by a long string of fretful stammering.

Ramza had grown much, learned a great deal, and accomplished true marvels…but, he still needed to learn how to keep that damned mouth of his from getting him into trouble.


	32. A Sheriff for This Here Two Chocobo Town

The normally unassuming Lord Phelps, who looked about as out of place in his gaudy outfit and even more gaudily dressed fellows as might a fishmonger or a woodcutter, had arrived at this particular ball thoroughly convinced that he would not enjoy himself.

His reasons for this grim presentiment were myriad, but one reason that ranked fairly high was that, despite his title, he was not of noble birth.

He'd been born, under a questionable marital arrangement, to a butcher, who'd been born to a hunter whose nuptials had been somewhat ambiguous, who'd been born to carpenter who may or may not have planted his seed within the bounds of wedlock.

Lord Phelps was quite certain that the seeming flightiness of his forebearers would not impress his newfound peers, and the only consistency of his forefathers being how they were born under questionable circumstances would likely impress them even less. So, he'd talked very little.

But, as was the wont of unassuming men, he listened and thought a great deal.

Like many of the humbly born of Ivalice, he'd thought very little of altering his station and, with it, his life, and had thus contented himself as a legal assistant to his village's prosecutor. Though he himself studied the law with much vigor, he doubted he'd be able to practice it without the money or connections to finance a formal legal education nor any real prospects for sponsorship.

So, one can imagine Phelps' astonishment when King Delita himself had snatched him up, along with a slew of others in similar situations, and tasked them with crafting the legislation which would characterize the new Ivalice where being of low birth would pose no obstacle to achieving greatness.

Harnessing his prior experience, Phelps had been quick to propose the reinstatement of, and many refinements to, the system of trial by jury, whose effectives, presence, and viability had become erratic over more than half a century of unremitting warfare, as well as devising a system by which advocate barristers could be appointed to represent clients who lacked the financial means to secure legal counsel of their own. It had taken little time for the king to notice these contributions, and less time still for Phelps' good work to be rewarded with a place in the peerage and an invitation to this gala.

Several of Phelps' fellows had received similar invitations and had jumped (literally, in some cases) at the opportunity to wine and dine amongst the glamour of Lesalia Castle and to rub elbows with the highborn, as none would have even dreamed possible but a few short years ago.

For many of Phelps' fellows, such an evening was a golden opportunity to further advance newfound careers and hitherto unthinkable aspirations while, for as many others, it was the belated fulfillment of a childhood dream, resurrected and granted by a king of unheard-of munificence.

As for Phelps, he was of the opinion that, if King Delita wanted to express his gratitude, he could've just bought Phelps a beer and called it a night.

Perhaps King Delita had seen as much in Phelps' expression, for the monarch had made a point of delivering his gifts in person. Rather than affronted, he'd nodded in understanding and urged Phelps to come anyway, saying that such galas offered great opportunities to gauge the moods of the people who he'd likely end up dealing with. Some he would be working with, or against, so the chance to study them, get to know them, and connect with them was a valuable, if lamentable, use of his time. And, occasionally, the ever-present tittle-tattle of Lesalia _did_ offer rare jewels amongst such inevitable dreck as who was having an affair with whom and who was less fashionably dressed than whom.

Given a choice, Phelps, who'd always been ill content when away from his work for too long, would've rather spent his time trying to figure out just how to unravel this latest legislative conundrum to cross his desk. He'd had little luck with it, as not only was his knowledge of the matter skeletal but so too was that of his colleagues and, most troublingly, those who were presently affected and would be in the future.

Slivers of solutions, all rendered quite implausible by his ignorance on the subject, continued to bounce around in his skull with vexing ineffectualness until, to his astonishment, his decision to humor his king and attend this gaudy gala provided an answer.

So, the normally unassuming Lord Phelps decided to make this evening's unpleasantries count and make a connection with someone who he suspected would prove a great ally indeed.

One unaware of the spectacle earlier might find such a claim hard to believe as the (very young) man in question tried, with varying degrees of success to see if what he'd sought might've skittered its way under a lady's skirt.

"Looking for these, Master Mustadio?" Lord Phelps asked, deciding he'd best act before the affronted ladies stopped slapping and started maiming.

The warrior/machinist, who had by then discovered all the wrong ways to ask a lady to lift her skirt, and looked it too, turned his slightly mangled face in Phelps' direction and, upon seeing the pair of adamantoise shell slippers in his hand, let out an audible sigh of relief and dashed over.

"Thank you, milord," he said feelingly as he plucked the two slippers from Phelps' hand.

"You're quite welcome," Phelps replied. "And, no need for the "milord" bit. I've been a lord for two months, if even, and I'm far from used to it."

Phelps was aware – at times, painfully so – that the common folk whom he was far more used to mingling with would likely have reacted to his words with great perplexity. After all, with the prospect of a wealthy life slowly but surely yawning wide to all with the skill and drive to seize it, Phelps had more than once been on the receiving end of gushing hero worship from those who still had further to go before attaining the success he presently enjoyed. And, unfortunately, neither his old pedigree nor his new one had gifted him with the ability to feign politeness for sustained periods.

Luckily, it seemed Mustadio understood this.

"Well then," he'd said, with a modesty that seemed wholly mismatched with his earlier swagger, "how about you wait to call me "Master" until I've earned the title. That's some ways off."

"Maybe not as far as you think," Phelps opined. "Your demonstration of gunplay and marksmanship was quite impressive. It must've taken considerable time and effort to achieve such skills."

"It did, but it's not much different than any other weapon…actually, strike that, it _is_ different, but the old rule still applies. If you practice, you'll get it right."

"I can believe that Mas…excuse me, Mustadio. That is actually something I'd hoped to touch upon with you. It is obvious that your knowledge of guns, not just how to use them but of their workings, is quite excellent."

Mustadio had been halfway through the motion of scratching the back of his head self-consciously when he suddenly seemed to remember himself, straightened, and gave a fair approximation of a proud and confident smirk.

"Well, I may not be the only machinist in Goug, but I'm sure I rank up there," he said and, though Phelps didn't doubt the validity of the claim, he wondered at how the words seemed to pass Mustadio's lips somewhat awkwardly.

"Perhaps, but I believe you'll more than suffice for my needs," Phelps affirmed and, at the machinist's swagger giving way to perplexity, he added "Perhaps I should elaborate. I am one of king's newly appointed legislators and, recently, he's handed me a bit of a conundrum. I imagine someone in your field is well aware of this, but, of late, guns have been cropping up in the shops of Ivalice with remarkable rapidity. Right now, they're sold alongside swords, daggers, and other more traditional weapons; legal for the most part. However, quite a few of those buying them seem to…lack your _proficiency_."

That, Phelps had to admit, was putting it mildly. In one truly spectacular, and tragic, instance, a man had been trying, ineffectually, to fire his newly acquired gun at a castoff archery range target. Suddenly, he heard a commotion nearby and turned to see a disreputable looking man tearing through a nearby alley, a small girl slung over his shoulder and a young man in frantic pursuit.

Suspecting – correctly, as was discovered later – that the disreputable man was some manner of villain whose depravity of choice was abducting children for some foul purpose and having seen such acts during the War of the Lions often enough to loathe such villains as no other, the would-be marksman sprang into action.

His bravery would've made this story one of triumph, if not for his impulsive choice of just how he'd go about thwarting the abduction.

Taking aim, he had fired, expecting to hit the villain in the forehead. But, for reasons as yet nebulous to all, the bullet had veered off its course and gone straight into the heart of the pursuing young man, the abducted girl's brother, who had died before he'd even hit the ground.

As for the small girl, she had managed to escape horrors best left unspoken by a twisted irony of fate. Her abductor, startled by the veritable thunderclap of the gun, had taken a bad step, twisted his ankle, and fallen, allowing his hostage to escape…

…not that she had been feeling terribly fortunate after learning what price had been paid for her escape.

This horrific accident had been made all the more senseless because the gun had come with a treatise on how to use it properly, and the instructions therein might very well have altered that sad tale drastically.

The would-be marksman had thrown the treatise away just after leaving the shop, however.

After all, what good would such a treatise have done him when, like many humbly born Ivalicians, he did not know how to read?

As for Phelps, he had learned how to read not long after he'd learned to talk, which was no small feat given how expensive the requisite materials had been prior to the recent advent of the printing press.

Not that it was doing him much good, however. When Phelps had fished the gun's accompanying literature out of the rubbish and read it, he'd found it packed full of diagrams, procedures, formulae, and terminology which he'd found entirely baffling.

No less stinging, the would-be rescuer had promptly been hounded out of his own home once word of the tragedy had begun making the rounds. And, this was despite the fact that, in the eyes of the law and common sense alike, he had done nothing wrong.

He had purchased the weapon with funds he had earned through hard and honest labor, not shorting the merchant one gil.

The establishment he'd purchased the weapon at was reputable, its owner having kept up his business for decades without so much as one dishonest sale.

As near as could be determined, the gun had been functioning properly and, in defter hands, would have handily shot the would-be abductor as the unfortunate marksman had intended.

So, all told, one young life had been lost, and other upended as neighbors and strangers alike turned on him, all over an accident.

As a man of the law, Phelps was well aware that some accidents were injurious enough to demand legal action, but he was no draconian specimen to have the accused drawn and quartered over the paltriest offenses.

An entirely new and highly complex variable had been thrown into the mix of an already very fluid situation. The task of calming these stormy waters had fallen upon Phelps's shoulders, but it had become palpably evident that he could not do so alone.

But, perhaps help had come at last?

It appeared that the warrior/machinist was already aware of this story for, when Phelps relayed it, Mustadio seemed saddened but not particularly surprised.

"Yeah, I was worried about that," the machinist said grimly. "That story, and a lot like it, have been making the rounds amongst us machinists. From what I've been able to find out, there are a lot of possibilities. You remember how I demonstrated recoil earlier? Well, if you pull the trigger without bracing yourself first, the recoil will throw off your aim. The same happens if you don't compensate for the wind, or jerk the trigger. And, I'll bet he didn't know how to lead his target either."

"I…beg your pardon?" Phelps spoke up, somewhat confused.

"Oh, sorry. Well, you know how the pull of a bow is the resistance to it being drawn? Well, the trigger pull works similarly. You need to exert a certain amount of pressure on the trigger to fire the gun, but just squeezing it as hard as you can will foul up your shot. And, you know how archers need to compensate for the wind? And how, in order to hit a moving target, they need to aim where the target's going? Well, the same holds true with guns. It takes a lot of practice to learn, but it can be done. Maybe that story would've ended better if that guy knew what he was doing."

"Perhaps, but similar stories have, indeed, been crossing my desk lately. The king wishes for me and his other legislators to find a solution, but how can I craft policy on something I know nothing about? You, though? You know the technology, likely better than any man present if that tome of yours is any indication."

Mustadio looked genuinely uncertain whether to respond with humility or swagger, and thus ended up looking rather silly. Still, Phelps decided he could pardon that slip and pressed on.

"What this solution might be, I still don't know," he admitted, more willing than most present to admit to his own shortcomings. "But, I do know that, whatever the solution is, I've a much better chance of finding it with the help of someone like you."

Here, Phelps paused to extend a hand. Though he was still far from a solution to this conundrum, the chance discovery of Mustadio had seemed a godsend. With a clearer idea of how guns functioned, how they could be made to work properly, and how to avoid repeating the tragic happenstance where a bullet aimed for a kidnapper killed another would-be rescuer instead, answers seemed within reach.

After a moment of stunned indecision, Mustadio's face lit up until he resembled a child who'd been offered an apprenticeship to a candy maker, with overtime being paid in sweets as well as coin. He then took the proffered hand and pumped it with such vigor that Phelps' teeth rattled.

"Thank you, milord," Mustadio gushed, quite oblivious to Phelps' displeasure at the title. "I had hoped for just such a meeting."

"Yes, I can see that," Phelps managed to get out amidst his teeth clattering together.

At this, the warrior/machinist seemed to realize his overexuberance and released the hand he seemed poised to crush.

"Sorry about that, milord," he said. "It's just…I'm so thrilled to have such an opportunity as this! I've been a machinist all my life, but it's only recently that I've felt my craft can really do some good. In all that time, my research has only revealed the barest hint of the technology that the ancients once possessed. And, as much as I want to rediscover as much of it as I can, I know I'll only find so much before I'm gone. But, I also know that being careless with these discoveries could be tragic. For all we know, that might've been why they were forgotten in the first place; a few used them carelessly and everyone else became afraid of them, just like those people who looked ready to faint when I was firing a gun _away_ from them."

"A difficult theory to prove, but one which seems well founded," Phelps commented, appreciating Mustadio's logic as well as his passion.

"Yeah. I know this technology can be dangerous. During the war, I killed way too many to believe otherwise. But, a gun is just a tool, not some magical artifact with a mind of its own that can stab you in the back all by itself. I want this technology used, propagated, even improved upon. But, I also want it to be used responsibly. Otherwise, enough people might become scared of it that it gets locked away and forgotten all over again. I know King Delita's societal and economic reforms have done a lot to make life better in this country, but technology will do even more. The printing press, and how it could make illiteracy a thing of the past in a few decades? That could change the world in ways that might outlast Ivalice herself. It's every machinist's dream to make a mark like that, and I'd be honored if working with you could help me, could help _us_ , make such a mark."

Here, Mustadio paused and glanced back in what Phelps imagined was the direction of Meliadoul, who was likely fending off several who urged her to consider her promised dance with Mustadio to be conditional.

"And, I also want to prove myself to Melia, to make something of myself that she can be proud of," he said, distantly. "I know there will be people who will never approve, but if I can get _her_ approval, then all the sneering faces in the world won't deter me."

Despite his slightly manic energy and his odd shifts between being humble and being almost arrogantly confident, Phelps found himself liking Mustadio more and more with each passing moment. He was eager, intelligent, conscientious, principled, brave, and rather endearing in his youthful gaffes. After Mustadio had pulled his head out of the proverbial clouds, and despite the risk to his incisors, Phelps made a point of offering his hand once more.

"You may not be the only machinist in Ivalice, but I can't think of another I'd rather have at my side in times like these," he said gratefully. "If you can, return here tomorrow afternoon. Ask the sentries to escort you to one Lord Phelps and we will discuss how to make sure we both make our marks upon this era."

After another overenthusiastic handshake from the warrior/machinist, Phelps added. "Now, I believe you've kept your lady waiting too long. Go, and treat her well. And, if I may say so? Be yourself with her. I imagine she's appreciated you, as you truly are, before. And, I don't doubt she'll continue to do so."

Just which of these seemingly opposed personalities was Mustadio's "self", Phelps wasn't sure, but he suspected that Mustadio would be good to Dame Meliadoul once he stopped being so preoccupied with impressing her. For one, she did not look the sort to tolerate being given a nickname by someone who wasn't in her good graces. Hoping Mustadio would make good use of the advice, Phelps saw him off, the warrior/machinist calling out a request that Phelps remind him to demonstrate some invention called the "wallet" before disappearing into the crowd.

Thus, the unassuming Lord Phelps found himself soundly disproven in his assertion that he wouldn't enjoy this gala.

It didn't stop him from wishing for a good beer, though.

Fortunately, he, along with several others have been able to find contentment watching Mustadio explain to his lady just why he'd left her waiting barefoot on cold marble for so long.

It wasn't a good beer, but the show was quite entertaining.

The normally unassuming Lord Phelps, who looked about as out of place in his gaudy outfit and even more gaudily dressed fellows as might a fishmonger or a woodcutter, had arrived at this particular ball thoroughly convinced that he would not enjoy himself.

His reasons for this grim presentiment were myriad, but one reason that ranked fairly high was that, despite his title, he was not of noble birth.

He'd been born, under a questionable marital arrangement, to a butcher, who'd been born to a hunter whose nuptials had been somewhat ambiguous, who'd been born to carpenter who may or may not have planted his seed within the bounds of wedlock.

Lord Phelps was quite certain that the seeming flightiness of his forebearers would not impress his newfound peers, and the only consistency of his forefathers being how they were born under questionable circumstances would likely impress them even less. So, he'd talked very little.

But, as was the wont of unassuming men, he listened and thought a great deal.

Like many of the humbly born of Ivalice, he'd thought very little of altering his station and, with it, his life, and had thus contented himself as a legal assistant to his village's prosecutor. Though he himself studied the law with much vigor, he doubted he'd be able to practice it without the money or connections to finance a formal legal education nor any real prospects for sponsorship.

So, one can imagine Phelps' astonishment when King Delita himself had snatched him up, along with a slew of others in similar situations, and tasked them with crafting the legislation which would characterize the new Ivalice where being of low birth would pose no obstacle to achieving greatness.

Harnessing his prior experience, Phelps had been quick to propose the reinstatement of, and many refinements to, the system of trial by jury, whose effectives, presence, and viability had become erratic over more than half a century of unremitting warfare, as well as devising a system by which advocate barristers could be appointed to represent clients who lacked the financial means to secure legal counsel of their own. It had taken little time for the king to notice these contributions, and less time still for Phelps' good work to be rewarded with a place in the peerage and an invitation to this gala.

Several of Phelps' fellows had received similar invitations and had jumped (literally, in some cases) at the opportunity to wine and dine amongst the glamour of Lesalia Castle and to rub elbows with the highborn, as none would have even dreamed possible but a few short years ago.

For many of Phelps' fellows, such an evening was a golden opportunity to further advance newfound careers and hitherto unthinkable aspirations while, for as many others, it was the belated fulfillment of a childhood dream, resurrected and granted by a king of unheard-of munificence.

As for Phelps, he was of the opinion that, if King Delita wanted to express his gratitude, he could've just bought Phelps a beer and called it a night.

Perhaps King Delita had seen as much in Phelps' expression, for the monarch had made a point of delivering his gifts in person. Rather than affronted, he'd nodded in understanding and urged Phelps to come anyway, saying that such galas offered great opportunities to gauge the moods of the people who he'd likely end up dealing with. Some he would be working with, or against, so the chance to study them, get to know them, and connect with them was a valuable, if lamentable, use of his time. And, occasionally, the ever-present tittle-tattle of Lesalia _did_ offer rare jewels amongst such inevitable dreck as who was having an affair with whom and who was less fashionably dressed than whom.

Given a choice, Phelps, who'd always been ill content when away from his work for too long, would've rather spent his time trying to figure out just how to unravel this latest legislative conundrum to cross his desk. He'd had little luck with it, as not only was his knowledge of the matter skeletal but so too was that of his colleagues and, most troublingly, those who were presently affected and would be in the future.

Slivers of solutions, all rendered quite implausible by his ignorance on the subject, continued to bounce around in his skull with vexing ineffectualness until, to his astonishment, his decision to humor his king and attend this gaudy gala provided an answer.

So, the normally unassuming Lord Phelps decided to make this evening's unpleasantries count and make a connection with someone who he suspected would prove a great ally indeed.

One unaware of the spectacle earlier might find such a claim hard to believe as the (very young) man in question tried, with varying degrees of success to see if what he'd sought might've skittered its way under a lady's skirt.

"Looking for these, Master Mustadio?" Lord Phelps asked, deciding he'd best act before the affronted ladies stopped slapping and started maiming.

The warrior/machinist, who had by then discovered all the wrong ways to ask a lady to lift her skirt, and looked it too, turned his slightly mangled face in Phelps' direction and, upon seeing the pair of adamantoise shell slippers in his hand, let out an audible sigh of relief and dashed over.

"Thank you, milord," he said feelingly as he plucked the two slippers from Phelps' hand.

"You're quite welcome," Phelps replied. "And, no need for the "milord" bit. I've been a lord for two months, if even, and I'm far from used to it."

Phelps was aware – at times, painfully so – that the common folk whom he was far more used to mingling with would likely have reacted to his words with great perplexity. After all, with the prospect of a wealthy life slowly but surely yawning wide to all with the skill and drive to seize it, Phelps had more than once been on the receiving end of gushing hero worship from those who still had further to go before attaining the success he presently enjoyed. And, unfortunately, neither his old pedigree nor his new one had gifted him with the ability to feign politeness for sustained periods.

Luckily, it seemed Mustadio understood this.

"Well then," he'd said, with a modesty that seemed wholly mismatched with his earlier swagger, "how about you wait to call me "Master" until I've earned the title. That's some ways off."

"Maybe not as far as you think," Phelps opined. "Your demonstration of gunplay and marksmanship was quite impressive. It must've taken considerable time and effort to achieve such skills."

"It did, but it's not much different than any other weapon…actually, strike that, it _is_ different, but the old rule still applies. If you practice, you'll get it right."

"I can believe that Mas…excuse me, Mustadio. That is actually something I'd hoped to touch upon with you. It is obvious that your knowledge of guns, not just how to use them but of their workings, is quite excellent."

Mustadio had been halfway through the motion of scratching the back of his head self-consciously when he suddenly seemed to remember himself, straightened, and gave a fair approximation of a proud and confident smirk.

"Well, I may not be the only machinist in Goug, but I'm sure I rank up there," he said and, though Phelps didn't doubt the validity of the claim, he wondered at how the words seemed to pass Mustadio's lips somewhat awkwardly.

"Perhaps, but I believe you'll more than suffice for my needs," Phelps affirmed and, at the machinist's swagger giving way to perplexity, he added "Perhaps I should elaborate. I am one of king's newly appointed legislators and, recently, he's handed me a bit of a conundrum. I imagine someone in your field is well aware of this, but, of late, guns have been cropping up in the shops of Ivalice with remarkable rapidity. Right now, they're sold alongside swords, daggers, and other more traditional weapons; legal for the most part. However, quite a few of those buying them seem to…lack your _proficiency_."

That, Phelps had to admit, was putting it mildly. In one truly spectacular, and tragic, instance, a man had been trying, ineffectually, to fire his newly acquired gun at a castoff archery range target. Suddenly, he heard a commotion nearby and turned to see a disreputable looking man tearing through a nearby alley, a small girl slung over his shoulder and a young man in frantic pursuit.

Suspecting – correctly, as was discovered later – that the disreputable man was some manner of villain whose depravity of choice was abducting children for some foul purpose and having seen such acts during the War of the Lions often enough to loathe such villains as no other, the would-be marksman sprang into action.

His bravery would've made this story one of triumph, if not for his impulsive choice of just how he'd go about thwarting the abduction.

Taking aim, he had fired, expecting to hit the villain in the forehead. But, for reasons as yet nebulous to all, the bullet had veered off its course and gone straight into the heart of the pursuing young man, the abducted girl's brother, who had died before he'd even hit the ground.

As for the small girl, she had managed to escape horrors best left unspoken by a twisted irony of fate. Her abductor, startled by the veritable thunderclap of the gun, had taken a bad step, twisted his ankle, and fallen, allowing his hostage to escape…

…not that she had been feeling terribly fortunate after learning what price had been paid for her escape.

This horrific accident had been made all the more senseless because the gun had come with a treatise on how to use it properly, and the instructions therein might very well have altered that sad tale drastically.

The would-be marksman had thrown the treatise away just after leaving the shop, however.

After all, what good would such a treatise have done him when, like many humbly born Ivalicians, he did not know how to read?

As for Phelps, he had learned how to read not long after he'd learned to talk, which was no small feat given how expensive the requisite materials had been prior to the recent advent of the printing press.

Not that it was doing him much good, however. When Phelps had fished the gun's accompanying literature out of the rubbish and read it, he'd found it packed full of diagrams, procedures, formulae, and terminology which he'd found entirely baffling.

No less stinging, the would-be rescuer had promptly been hounded out of his own home once word of the tragedy had begun making the rounds. And, this was despite the fact that, in the eyes of the law and common sense alike, he had done nothing wrong.

He had purchased the weapon with funds he had earned through hard and honest labor, not shorting the merchant one gil.

The establishment he'd purchased the weapon at was reputable, its owner having kept up his business for decades without so much as one dishonest sale.

As near as could be determined, the gun had been functioning properly and, in defter hands, would have handily shot the would-be abductor as the unfortunate marksman had intended.

So, all told, one young life had been lost, and other upended as neighbors and strangers alike turned on him, all over an accident.

As a man of the law, Phelps was well aware that some accidents were injurious enough to demand legal action, but he was no draconian specimen to have the accused drawn and quartered over the paltriest offenses.

An entirely new and highly complex variable had been thrown into the mix of an already very fluid situation. The task of calming these stormy waters had fallen upon Phelps's shoulders, but it had become palpably evident that he could not do so alone.

But, perhaps help had come at last?

It appeared that the warrior/machinist was already aware of this story for, when Phelps relayed it, Mustadio seemed saddened but not particularly surprised.

"Yeah, I was worried about that," the machinist said grimly. "That story, and a lot like it, have been making the rounds amongst us machinists. From what I've been able to find out, there are a lot of possibilities. You remember how I demonstrated recoil earlier? Well, if you pull the trigger without bracing yourself first, the recoil will throw off your aim. The same happens if you don't compensate for the wind, or jerk the trigger. And, I'll bet he didn't know how to lead his target either."

"I…beg your pardon?" Phelps spoke up, somewhat confused.

"Oh, sorry. Well, you know how the pull of a bow is the resistance to it being drawn? Well, the trigger pull works similarly. You need to exert a certain amount of pressure on the trigger to fire the gun, but just squeezing it as hard as you can will foul up your shot. And, you know how archers need to compensate for the wind? And how, in order to hit a moving target, they need to aim where the target's going? Well, the same holds true with guns. It takes a lot of practice to learn, but it can be done. Maybe that story would've ended better if that guy knew what he was doing."

"Perhaps, but similar stories have, indeed, been crossing my desk lately. The king wishes for me and his other legislators to find a solution, but how can I craft policy on something I know nothing about? You, though? You know the technology, likely better than any man present if that tome of yours is any indication."

Mustadio looked genuinely uncertain whether to respond with humility or swagger, and thus ended up looking rather silly. Still, Phelps decided he could pardon that slip and pressed on.

"What this solution might be, I still don't know," he admitted, more willing than most present to admit to his own shortcomings. "But, I do know that, whatever the solution is, I've a much better chance of finding it with the help of someone like you."

Here, Phelps paused to extend a hand. Though he was still far from a solution to this conundrum, the chance discovery of Mustadio had seemed a godsend. With a clearer idea of how guns functioned, how they could be made to work properly, and how to avoid repeating the tragic happenstance where a bullet aimed for a kidnapper killed another would-be rescuer instead, answers seemed within reach.

After a moment of stunned indecision, Mustadio's face lit up until he resembled a child who'd been offered an apprenticeship to a candy maker, with overtime being paid in sweets as well as coin. He then took the proffered hand and pumped it with such vigor that Phelps' teeth rattled.

"Thank you, milord," Mustadio gushed, quite oblivious to Phelps' displeasure at the title. "I had hoped for just such a meeting."

"Yes, I can see that," Phelps managed to get out amidst his teeth clattering together.

At this, the warrior/machinist seemed to realize his overexuberance and released the hand he seemed poised to crush.

"Sorry about that, milord," he said. "It's just…I'm so thrilled to have such an opportunity as this! I've been a machinist all my life, but it's only recently that I've felt my craft can really do some good. In all that time, my research has only revealed the barest hint of the technology that the ancients once possessed. And, as much as I want to rediscover as much of it as I can, I know I'll only find so much before I'm gone. But, I also know that being careless with these discoveries could be tragic. For all we know, that might've been why they were forgotten in the first place; a few used them carelessly and everyone else became afraid of them, just like those people who looked ready to faint when I was firing a gun _away_ from them."

"A difficult theory to prove, but one which seems well founded," Phelps commented, appreciating Mustadio's logic as well as his passion.

"Yeah. I know this technology can be dangerous. During the war, I killed way too many to believe otherwise. But, a gun is just a tool, not some magical artifact with a mind of its own that can stab you in the back all by itself. I want this technology used, propagated, even improved upon. But, I also want it to be used responsibly. Otherwise, enough people might become scared of it that it gets locked away and forgotten all over again. I know King Delita's societal and economic reforms have done a lot to make life better in this country, but technology will do even more. The printing press, and how it could make illiteracy a thing of the past in a few decades? That could change the world in ways that might outlast Ivalice herself. It's every machinist's dream to make a mark like that, and I'd be honored if working with you could help me, could help _us_ , make such a mark."

Here, Mustadio paused and glanced back in what Phelps imagined was the direction of Meliadoul, who was likely fending off several who urged her to consider her promised dance with Mustadio to be conditional.

"And, I also want to prove myself to Melia, to make something of myself that she can be proud of," he said, distantly. "I know there will be people who will never approve, but if I can get _her_ approval, then all the sneering faces in the world won't deter me."

Despite his slightly manic energy and his odd shifts between being humble and being almost arrogantly confident, Phelps found himself liking Mustadio more and more with each passing moment. He was eager, intelligent, conscientious, principled, brave, and rather endearing in his youthful gaffes. After Mustadio had pulled his head out of the proverbial clouds, and despite the risk to his incisors, Phelps made a point of offering his hand once more.

"You may not be the only machinist in Ivalice, but I can't think of another I'd rather have at my side in times like these," he said gratefully. "If you can, return here tomorrow afternoon. Ask the sentries to escort you to one Lord Phelps and we will discuss how to make sure we both make our marks upon this era."

After another overenthusiastic handshake from the warrior/machinist, Phelps added. "Now, I believe you've kept your lady waiting too long. Go, and treat her well. And, if I may say so? Be yourself with her. I imagine she's appreciated you, as you truly are, before. And, I don't doubt she'll continue to do so."

Just which of these seemingly opposed personalities was Mustadio's "self", Phelps wasn't sure, but he suspected that Mustadio would be good to Dame Meliadoul once he stopped being so preoccupied with impressing her. For one, she did not look the sort to tolerate being given a nickname by someone who wasn't in her good graces. Hoping Mustadio would make good use of the advice, Phelps saw him off, the warrior/machinist calling out a request that Phelps remind him to demonstrate some invention called the "wallet" before disappearing into the crowd.

Thus, the unassuming Lord Phelps found himself soundly disproven in his assertion that he wouldn't enjoy this gala.

It didn't stop him from wishing for a good beer, though.

Fortunately, he, along with several others have been able to find contentment watching Mustadio explain to his lady just why he'd left her waiting barefoot on cold marble for so long.

It wasn't a good beer, but the show was quite entertaining.


	33. To Find Love Again

Though he could expect a memorable ribbing for it later, Izlude was utterly oblivious to the various contests of skill, his sister's honor being upheld – twice, or even three times if her show of mercy be counted – and the man he'd teasingly considered a possible brother-in-law simultaneously making history by partnering with Lord Phelps to ensure guns saw responsible use and making a fool of himself by failing to consider the possibility that lifting a lady's skirt to see if his girlfriend's lost shoes were underneath might be a bad idea.

But, then again, as remarkable and important as these occurrences might be, how could they compare to having his lover so near at hand and smiling warmly at him?

"So, Sir Damien, would you mind telling me a little about yourself?" Alma asked as she and the man unknowingly regarded as the prevailing suitor strolled arm in arm around Lesalia Castle's breathtaking royal gardens.

At this late hour, and with the nights growing colder, the gardens were largely deserted, save for the fireflies that flitted about like bits of flame estranged from their candles. Between these, and the full moon bathing the garden in radiant light, their surroundings were cast in such ethereal brilliance that Izlude would not have been surprised If he were to turn to Alma and see angel's wings sprouting from her back.

The temptation to confess all, to see if the stone could be persuaded to give him back his true face for another few minutes, was palpable, but he managed to restrain himself. He could not allow impatience, nor the risk of what might happen if he abused the tolerance of whatever will lay hidden within the stone, to thwart him when his goal lay so near.

And, the dangers such rashness might invite would not fall upon him alone.

He surreptitiously eyed Alma's belly, and their child within. After giving silent congratulations to whomever had woven the dress to conceal the evidence, Izlude affirmed that he'd already waited long and worked hard to win Alma back.

He could afford to be patient a bit longer, especially since his and Alma's happy future was not the only one which depended upon his decisions.

"Of course not, my lady," Izlude said, drawing upon his, by now, well-practiced and refined background story which he'd pieced together and knew by heart as if it were his true life's story instead of a façade to deceive the Lucavi as well as the rest of the world into believing Izlude Tingel was now dead. "I'm a third-generation Romandan immigrant. However, my family has lived here since the before the Fifty Years War ended and I was born and raised in Ivalice, so I may as well be a native like yourself."

"I see…," Alma replied. "I met a Romandan trader when I was little, who'd decided to remain here once the Fifty Years War ended. You don't have an accent like he did, though."

"If he was newly arrived at the time, then that wouldn't surprise me," Izlude pointed out. "Many of my countrymen were keen to leave after Czar Ivan Krasnya Pukov put down his rebellious brother, Prince Boris Gegarin Pukov. Those who'd supported Prince Boris held no illusions about their chances for clemency, understandable when you're dealing with someone who insisted on adding "the Terrible" to his own name, and decided to take their chances here."

"I can understand that," Alma commented, a haunted look in her eyes.

Perhaps she recalled the tidal wave of refugees that had poured into Lesalia and how, when food ran low and tempers high, violence erupted between impoverished castaways and besieged natives? Or, maybe she was recalling her own family, House Beoulve, which, like the Imperial House of Romanda, had had its darkest hour presaged by schisms and division which even shared blood could not bridge. Not knowing what words of comfort he could offer without revealing something he oughtn't, he waited in respectful silence until she spoke again.

"You say many Romandans live in Ivalice nowadays?" she asked.

"Quite a few, yes" Izlude answered. "It doesn't surprise me that this is not widely known. As chummy as they can be with their countrymen, even when those are complete strangers, my people aren't nearly as inclined to mingle with folk who are not their own. Usually the people living in such places can't speak your language very well, either because they never leave their communities or because they're disinclined to deal with non-Romandans. Easy enough to say when you have many people around with whom you share a language and a history. But being a stranger in a strange land is lonely enough without being so aloof. My parents always saw that as a mistake, that our supposed home-in-exile was likely to become a new home, and we'd neither accept it nor find acceptance by holding ourselves apart as though we had something to hide or, worse, disdained the people we ought to make friends with instead. So, they encouraged me to learn about and interact with people all over the country, as much as I could, so that I wouldn't live out my days in some enclave of suspicion like those other Romandans. And, I'm glad they did."

A goodly portion of what he'd said was new information, to himself as well as Alma. Though the book he'd acquired on the road to Lesalia had been very informative with regards to what the Romandans were as a nation and a culture, it had left out who they were face-to-face. As it happened, this was not merely an oversight. The disguised knightblade discovered this when, while on the road to Lesalia, a few people had commented on how odd it was for a Romandan immigrant to be so open and friendly with native Ivalicians.

Finding their words odd as well, Izlude had had to improvise by saying he simply enjoyed meeting people and travelling which, judging by the expressions aimed his way, were uncommon sentiments amongst the Romandan immigrant communities.

While passing the time before the ball, with all conceivable preparations complete and hours of otherwise torturous waiting still separating him from his love, Izlude had decided to look into this oddity, just in case more such questions arose at the ball.

As it turned out, though Romandans were quick to hug perfect strangers and call them friend, that was when they were dealing with fellow Romandans. They weren't quite as amicable with Ivalicians, though such exceptions as Dmitri were cropping up. The reasons for this were nebulous, but possibilities included how the Romandans, unable to adapt to Ivalice's climes, had been routed in their brief incursion during the Fifty Years War, envy over Ivalice's pleasant weather whereas Romanda's long winters often meant their dead had to wait months for a respectful burial, contempt towards the weakness and corruption that characterized the Ivalician nobility, or the simple condescension of Ivalice largely lacking the knowledge of firearms, which were a staple of Romanda's style of warfare.

Whatever the reason, or reasons, for Romandan immigrants to so often give their native Ivalician neighbors the cold shoulder, Ivalice was only too happy to reciprocate, especially given how the Romandans' insular nature betrayed this condescension, as well as how proficient Romandan immigrants proved to be at organized crime. Still, a melancholy tale this might be, it hadn't taken Izlude long to weave it into the tale of Damien Mitchell and, in short order, how this Romandan immigrant was different than his fellows, and why he relished it, came as easily to his lips as anything else he'd contrived.

Alma had nodded in understanding and, not for the first time, Izlude felt a pang of paradoxical regret that he'd gotten this far, in no small part, because he'd discovered he was quite good at lying.

Of course, to compound one irony with another, he was also aware that he'd become more approachable since assuming the identity of Damien Mitchell, and even discovered his hidden talent for storytelling.

Still, bluffing his way past strangers curious about his exotic features was one thing.

Lying to the woman he loved was quite another.

Despite his silent affirmation that success would mean a lifetime where he could make this deception up to Alma, Izlude paused and, as had sometimes happened on his journey, bits and pieces of the truth became to slip into his tale.

"It's funny," he remarked, almost off-handedly. "It's only recently that I came to truly appreciate what they did. Learning a new language and about people you might not even meet can easily tax a youngster's patience. But, eventually, I had to leave the place I called home in order to seek out a better future. For a time, it was terribly lonely. But, little by little, I let others in, just as my parents urged me. And, some of the people I count as my best friends I made on my journey here."

Though he ended his words with a mental apology to the late Sir Justin, he felt a warmth emanating from the stone that carried with it reassurance and understanding.

He could almost hear Sir Justin whispering in his ear, stutter and all, that there'd be more than enough time to reminiscence over his and Alma's mutual friend once it was safe to unmask himself.

"Your parents… where are they now?" Alma asked.

"They still live in Yardow," Izlude lied smoothly. "When I managed to secure a post as Duke Barrington's personal bodyguard, I was able to send them money to live comfortably."

Alma gasped. "You were a bodyguard to the last Duke of Favoham? Then, that means you must have been at Riovanes when the massacre occurred! How were you able to survive and get away?"

Expecting his unsuspecting lover to raise such a question, and quashing the urge to drop some hint as to just what he'd really been doing during the massacre, Izlude had his answer ready. "I'd actually left the duke's service by then. It was because…ahem…am I correct in presuming that stories of Duke Barrington's…more sordid activities had been making the rounds?"

Given Malak's presence, and that Izlude had spotted Alma talking with Rafa earlier, the disguised knightblade had little doubt that Alma was already, painfully, aware of how the late and unlamented Duke of Favoham had groomed Malak to be an assassin and had subjected Rafa to depraved cruelty behind closed doors. Still, though it might sting the gentle-hearted duchess, Izlude suspected it might seem odd if he didn't betray at least a hint of disbelief with regards to Duke Barrington's true nature.

Not many had been as keen to open their doors, and their purses, to the many orphans left behind by the Fifty Years War in the way Duke Barrington appeared to, and quite a few wealthy Ivalicians had been eager to supplement his seeming generosity with their own, not realizing their money was supporting the creation of a legion of child-assassins, some of whom doubled as playthings in the duke's bedchamber.

Those who spoke about these belated revelations did so in whispers of shock and dismay, and Izlude couldn't blame them. Nor could he blame Alma when her normally gentle features hardened into a glare for a split second.

"I suspected as much," Izlude intoned, hardly needing feign the sad undertone in his voice and he wondered what must've gone through Malak's head when he learned what Rafa had been subjected to by a man they'd once loved as a father. "On top of his other depravities, he paid his servants and guards a pittance for their honest labor. So, I left to join the Goltana army a few weeks before the massacre happened. I heard the rumors of what had happened while on the front-lines, though what I did hear I could scarcely believe."

"Oh… you were probably very lucky, because I was told there were very few survivors. The servants and knights who managed to get away were probably scarred for life, and a few were driven to madness by the horror of what they went through. When they were questioned, most answered with little more than terrified babbling."

 _Oh, I can believe it…_ the disguised knightblade thought silently but held his tongue on the matter.

Instead, he said: "It must've indeed been horrific. I knew many of the knights who'd served Duke Barrington, and none were the sort to scare easily. I can only pray that they'll find peace, if not in this life than the next."

"I hope so too," Alma agreed. She knew her suitor's words rang true since she herself could barely think straight when she came face to face with the demon who'd once worn the shell of her lover's father.

Even in human form, Hashmalum had sent chills down her spine when she encountered him after he'd returned to the room where he'd massacred the Duke of Favoham's personal bodyguards as well as Izlude himself.

"I've considered myself lucky to have left before the massacre. Otherwise, I wouldn't be here with you now, my lady." Izlude continued as he tried to think of a way to change the subject, since he knew the Riovanes massacre was starting to hit much too close to home for both him and Alma.

"I'm glad you did too… I'm sorry if I've made you uncomfortable by bringing it up," she apologized.

Izlude shook his head. "No, there is nothing to forgive. What about you, Lady Catherine? I'd like to know a bit more about the new Duchess of Lionel, so I can ensure that my humble self is worthy of her."

Alma blushed. "You hold me in too high regard, Sir Damien. As a cousin to King Delita, I was not born into the nobility. My brother, Drake, and I were born to parents of modest origins in the village of Nibelheim. Our mother was a humble seamstress while our father was a carpenter. During the war, my brother fought at King Delita's side while I aided the war effort at home by sewing clothes and blankets for those serving on the front lines."

"And, after the war, your cousin appointed you and Lord Drake Lionel's duke and duchess as a reward, right?" Izlude asked curiously.

Alma nodded. "Yes… Personally, I wouldn't have minded living the life of a seamstress, but my brother fought valiantly at our cousin's side to bring the war to an end, and he deserved a reward far more than I."

Here, the Duchess of Lionel's words trailed off and glanced in the direction of the ballroom, as though vainly seeking some hint of her brother amongst the too thick forest of swaying silk-clad forms.

"Even when we were younger, I could tell he was destined for greatness," she continued. "He was always brave, kind, and had a natural ability to lead. I could tell that, sooner or later, he would leave our little town for bigger and better things. That worried me, and not just because I knew how much I'd miss him, but also because he was a bit naïve. Too quick to trust, too quick to assume that forthrightness could solve your problems just like that, and rarely even considering that some people might not be as trustworthy as him. That's one of the reasons I was glad that he married someone like Agrias, who can help to steady and temper him. There are still days I'd rather be back weaving clothes and blankets, but I suppose Drake's eagerness to do some good for his fellows grew on me."

Izlude smiled. Even knowing that his disguised lover was a true-born noblewoman, her humble modesty and kindness never ceased to amaze him.

"Your love for your brother is admirable, my lady, but I'd warn against belittling yourself so," Izlude advised. "Not everyone who serves their country in times of war does so by taking up the sword; a war cannot be won without the efforts of all its participants. When I was serving on the front lines, I remembered that the nights can often be very cold at times and many of my fellow knights and I would have starved or frozen to death if not for the efforts of those who took it upon themselves to provide us with food, water, clothing, and blankets, especially when they needed such small comforts themselves."

Alma giggled. "I haven't really thought of that. Thank you, Sir Damien. I'm happy to know what little I could do was able to help."

"Yes… and, case in point, my sword will see little use now that the war is over. It is people like carpenters, masons, farmers, tailors, cooks, merchants, miners, and machinists who now have the power to rebuild Ivalice to its former glory."

"True…" Alma agreed. "But, after all the devastation the war wrought, it could take decades."

"I won't argue with that. But sometimes, the most gratification is found not at the end, but on the journey itself," Izlude said gently.

Alma laughed. "You're right, I never thought of that! I had no idea you were also a philosopher, Sir Damien."

Izlude smiled. "I'm not, but I learned a lot of things from my mother. She'd loved the arts since she was a little girl and was keen to share it by teaching others. She was also a philosopher of sorts as well. Something she always said, and made sure to prove, was that "If nothing is permanent in this wicked world, then neither are our troubles"."

"I can appreciate that", Alma said as she took a moment to look into her suitor's steel-grey eyes, perhaps recalling how the wound of Teta's death had been assuaged by the friends she'd made since then.

Even though she had known him only a short time, the Beoulve girl had to admit she was taking a great liking to the enigmatic Sir Damien. Only one other man had such an effect on her, and it was her late fiancé, Izlude Tingel.

 _Strange…_ she thought, her brows knitting. _It's_ _almost_ _like I'm back at Riovanes with Izlude again. I know this man isn't Izlude_ _,_ _but why does he remind me so much of him?_

She could not say. All she was certain of was that something about Sir Damien that reminded her a great deal of the first man to capture her heart before he'd been so cruelly snatched away. More than the thrill that kindled in her breast at the sight of a handsome and yet fascinating stranger, she could also feel from him the same sort of promise, irrational though it might be, that happiness might only be a seemingly foolish gamble away.

The temptation to take that gamble was there. It was real, it was palpable, it was powerful.

And, as she was reminded when she found herself swallowing a gasp when the baby suddenly kicked, such a chance might not come again.

Upon noticing Alma's silence and solemn expression, Izlude became concerned and asked "Is everything all right, Lady Catherine?"

Given what Izlude knew about Alma's condition, and that he might face some rather pointed questions if she gleaned that he knew, the disguised knightblade mentally lambasted himself for the hint of alarm in his tone. Luckily, Alma betrayed no more surprise than one suddenly roused from his or her own thoughts.

"Oh!" the duchess exclaimed when she saw her companion look at her with an expression of concern. "It's just that you remind me of someone I once knew…"

"Really? Who?" Izlude asked, despite already knowing the answer.

"Well… I don't know if you've heard, but I was engaged to a Templar during the war. Sadly, he was killed before we were to be married."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that, Lady Catherine. I'm sure he must've been a fine man to have caught so auspicious an eye as yours, and that he would have been honored to have you in his life… as would I."

Alma was startled. "You mean…?"

"Yes… I know it's a bit soon to ask, but I fear my heart may burst if I hold in the words much longer. Though I don't doubt that others have said this to you already, I journeyed for weeks to reach here, drawn by siren call of the tales and songs woven about you. And, now that I have met you, I see that every last verse is outshone by you. It would bring me great joy if you were to begin your new journey in life with me."

Alma gasped. "You mean…?"

Izlude nodded as he took a small box out of his pocket and pried the lid open.

Taking her hand, the raven-haired knight went down on one knee. "Lady Catherine, will you marry me?"

Alma found herself speechless as she stared down at the young man before her. Even his posture as he kneeled bore an almost phantasmal resemblance to Izlude. And, although she knew this man was not her deceased fiancé, the Beoulve girl knew this was probably her last chance to choose a husband before her pregnancy became obvious. As her best friend, Queen Ovelia, had told her before, Alma was lucky to have finally found someone to her liking. She could already admit that she could be satisfied being married to him, that she could possibly grow to love him as well.

And she was quite certain that this would be her last chance to avoid having her child stamped with the ignominious brand of a bastard and living in disgrace before he or she was even born.

Perhaps, as had been the case with her father and her mother, love could come again.

"Yes…I'll gladly marry you, Sir Damien!" Alma said.

Izlude smiled, so broadly that his grin nearly took in his ears. "Thank you, Lady Catherine. I know we only just met but I swear to you, once we're married, no, before and after, I promise to do everything in my power to make you happy…"

As Alma watched in silence, the disguised knightblade removed the ring from the box and slipped it on her ring finger. It was not lost on the Beoulve girl that the ring looked virtually identical to the one Izlude had given her, but she knew it could not have been the same one because she had returned it to Meliadoul before the divine knight had parted company with her and Ramza months ago.

Alma had hoped that getting back a piece of Izlude, however small, might bring some small comfort to the divine knight who'd almost been her sister-in-law. Meliadoul hadn't bothered to ask how Alma had gotten it, nor did Alma have the heart to tell her at the time. The Beoulve girl had wished she could've offered more, some succor or comfort to a woman who grieved for the same man she herself yet mourned, but her shattered heart had had nothing to offer. And, right up until seeing Meliadoul at the ball, on the arm of Mustadio and smiling at long last, some part of Alma had always nursed the dark fear that the divine knight had made a second – and, this time, successful – attempt and ending her own life.

Still, she had parted with the ring, in the vain hope that her grief might one day part with her as well.

And, even in such a world where demons could rise from fairy tales to wreck all too real horrors upon mankind, the chance that it might fall into Damien's possession seemed remote indeed.

However, what surprised Alma even more than its striking resemblance to the one Izlude had proposed to her with was that the ring was exactly her size.

Just how could Damien have known her _ring size_ just from their brief time together?

"Do you like, my lady?" Izlude asked as he lifted his head and looked into Alma's eyes.

"It...it's beautiful…" Alma breathed as she beheld the engagement ring, at once awed and shaken by this latest echo of what had been both the transcendent joys and darkest despairs of her life. "Where did you get it?"

"I had it made at a jeweler shop in downtown Lesalia not long after I arrived just in case I was lucky enough to be chosen by you, Lady Catherine. And, I lack the words to convey how grateful I am."

"I don't believe it…but, it looks exactly like the ring my late fiancé gave me."

Izlude frowned in confusion while his brow furrowed in concern. "I'm sorry if my ring has brought back painful memories for you. If you don't like it, I can get you a different one."

Alma shook her head fiercely. "No, I didn't mean it like that, Sir Damien. My apologies; I think it's perfect. I was just surprised at the coincidence that it looked so much like my previous ring, and that it's _exactly_ my size. How did you know?"

Izlude smiled, as much from relief as from pride in how effective his tactic had proven. Although openly revealing his true identity was not an option, and would not be for at least several months, he'd chosen to take Malak's advice and drop subtle hints of his true identity to Alma. One of these had been commissioning a ring that looked identical to the first one he gave her at Riovanes that was also her size as well.

But instead of saying so, he simply answered "I truly did not know; I simply assumed your ring finger was a size five, since the townspeople described you as 'dainty'. "

Alma giggled. "Well, I appreciate your attention to detail, but you mustn't always believe the gossip of townsfolk."

"I understand, but in this case I'm glad I did," Izlude replied with a touch of humor. "You've just made me the happiest man in the world, my lady. Would you like to return to the ballroom for another dance?"

Alma smiled and laughed as she accepted the hand Izlude offered her after he stood up again.

"I'd love to, Sir Damien," she said, smiling that crooked smile of hers at long last

Izlude smiled as he raised her hands to his lips again. "Just call me Damien, my lady."

"Of course… and you can just call me Catherine."

"I would like that…Catherine. Thank you."

Now that he had finally surmounted at least one hurdle in Alma to agree to marry him, Izlude led her by the hand back to the ballroom, a spring in his step even as he silently mulled over his next goal.

How to reveal himself to her?

**SSSSSS**

"You're a wonderful dancer, Lady Tingel," Mustadio complimented as he led Meliadoul in a slow waltz across the ballroom floor, taking great care to avoid getting too close to the other couples.

After the unlikely pair's combined skills had sent a much chastened Lollotte from the ballroom with her tail between her legs, no one had dared whisper what an odd couple Mustadio Bunanza and Meliadoul Tingel made.

Though, it must be said, they'd hardly lacked for cause.

Not only was the divine knight older than her partner, the gap in their ages similar to that of the Duke of Lionel and his newly-wedded wife, but Meliadoul was also noticeably taller as well. And, while most men preferred a woman who can gaze up at him lovingly though her long lashes and tuck their head under a gentleman's chin, Mustadio seemed quite content at the sight of his secret crush smiling down at him as her unbound tresses tickled at his cheeks and neck like gently teasing fingers.

The auburn-haired divine knight laughed. "You're not half-bad yourself, Master Bunanza, though it wasn't necessary for you to offer to duel with Dame Gervain in my place. I can take care of myself."

Mustadio blushed, his strange gyrations between a suave corsair and a bashful lad accentuating just how odd this odd couple was. "Of course, my lady, I never doubted that. I apologize if I come off as thinking you couldn't. But, as a gentleman, I am obligated to defend a lady who's being maligned."

Meliadoul smiled, something she had started to do a little more often since he'd asked her to be his "date" for the ball. As demented as it sounded, Meliadoul actually looked forward to seeing Mustadio, which was ironic considering that, when they had first met, she'd tried to kill him and, even after she'd joined Ramza's band of outcasts, she'd thought of him as a mere nuisance and barely tolerated him.

And yet, hindsight had told her that, in stopping her from killing herself after Altima's defeat and suckering her into the wager which had ensured she'd be here, Mustadio had brought a great deal of badly needed sunlight to what had otherwise been a future quite dark and bleak.

"It's all right, I don't mind," she said, feelingly. "In fact, I appreciate the sentiment. It means a lot to me…"

"And, of course, you showed me up when you fought her yourself," Mustadio gushed. "You were amazing! And, it was very gallant of you to spare Lollotte after all the vitriol she'd heaped on you."

"To be honest, not so long ago I would've acted differently. Back when I first joined Drake and his band, it was like a part of me had just guttered out. I was so sad, and so angry, at what had happened to Izlude and…and my father, that I just wanted the pain to go away. I stopped caring about anything else, because I honestly thought I didn't _have_ anything else left. It took me a while to realize otherwise…and, I can see that I treated you rather shabbily in the meantime."

Here, Mustadio let a gentle smile cross his features while he brought up one hand to caress Meliadoul's smooth cheek.

"Hey, don't be like that," he said. "I understood…well, it might not have shown, but I knew better than to take it personally. And, I stand by what I said, if you need someone to help you through it, my door's always open. And, plenty of others will say the same.

Meliadoul had to admit, for a man better practiced with dealing with machines than with people, Mustadio could be very sweet. And, though she had more than enough experience to know that he was attracted to her, she had to admit that she rather liked his bumbling affections.

Embarrassing though they might be, his clumsy efforts to charm her were rooted in sincere affection rather than designs upon her wealth, station, or beauty. And, as peculiar a specimen as he might be, his efforts to pull her out of the morass of grief she'd nearly drowned in had taken the sort of devotion that went beyond simple friendship. Finally, though some independent women-at-arms might find displeasure in any man championing the honor they'd rather defend for themselves, Meliadoul was not so prideful as to overlook the great courage it had taken for Mustadio to challenge Lollotte.

The divine knight was about to say something to that effect, and was aware she had a great deal to say on that matter, when she noticed something out of the corner of her eye. Looking over her partner's shoulder, the auburn-haired divine knight noticed that the Duchess of Lionel had returned, and that she wasn't alone. Arm-in-arm with Catherine Seymour, known to but a select few as Alma Beoulve, was a tall and well-built young man with pale-skin, steel-grey eyes, and hair as black as the midnight sky. Sure enough, he matched the description given to Meliadoul by the stable boys who'd handled Boco and Nelly.

At the sight, at once long awaited and yet coming too soon, the divine knight found herself forcing a grimace from her features. When she'd arrived at Lesalia Castle earlier that day, she had recognized her brother's mount amongst the animals who'd been stabled by the ball's guests. The stable boys reported that Nelly had been left in their care by one Damien Mitchell, a knight of foreign stock and no small amount of fame, and this had gotten Meliadoul's suspicions up.

How could this "Damien Mitchell" have not only acquired her brother's mount but tamed her as well, when anyone else who'd tried to mount Nelly came away with a year or so shaved off their life?

In truth, the divine knight had a supposition or two on that score but dared not voice it. She feared even to ponder it at too great a length, lest her heart be shattered a second time.

Wanting to question the mysterious – and, possibly, prevailing – suitor of the Duchess of Lionel, but not wanting to make a scene or to come off as rude to her partner, Meliadoul quickly searched her mind for an excuse to leave and go after the man known to the Ivalican court as Damien Mitchell. For a long moment, she was at a loss. Not only was she uncertain if Mustadio, who she suspected was a more fragile soul than his service in war and skillful gunplay might suggest, would be wounded by her abrupt exit, but she was more than a bit reluctant to leave his arms. Yet, at the same time, she had no way of knowing when she might next have the chance to question the mysterious Sir Damien. Ultimately, she decided that she needed the closure of truth, be it sweet or bitter, and that she had many, _many_ ways she could make it up to Mustadio. Thus resolved, she gave a deft imitation of a pained grimace and clutched at her stomach, where Lollotte had punched her during their duel.

A loud gasp, that caused several revelers to jerk to a halt, escaped Mustadio's lips while his youthful face contorted in alarm.

"Melia!" he cried, as though the shaft of an arrow had suddenly sprouted in her breast. "Are you alright?!"

Whether out of appreciation or amusement at Mustadio's concern, Meliadoul held up one conciliatory hand and gave a pained smile that wasn't entirely feigned.

The adrenaline of battle, the ecstasy of victory, and the joy that Mustadio managed to kindle in her breast, not to mention a discreet curaga spell she'd cast when no one was looking, had hidden it most effectively but being punched in the gut by someone wearing steel gauntlets _hurt_.

"Mustadio, there's no need to panic," Meliadoul reassured as she placed a hand on a spot below her right breast, massaging it tenderly. "I'm sorry to have startled you like that, but I fear Dame Gervain hit me harder than I thought. I don't mean to be rude, but could we meet again at another time?"

The blond youth frowned and his brow furrowed, his concern deepening visibly. "Are you sure you're all right, my lady? I could escort you back to your room if you want."

Meliadoul shook her head but tried not to look too eager to turn down Mustadio's offer of assistance, lest he become suspicious of her motives.

In truth, the divine knight had to squelch the urge to admit the truth to the self-styled warrior/machinist. She didn't doubt he'd be eager to help Meliadoul in a simple errand that would grant her closure at worst while, at best, might yield…something else. She could see it in his comically large yet intelligent eyes, and she had to admit that he might've proven helpful as she sought answers regarding the mysterious Sir Damien. Still, Meliadoul had no way of knowing whether her quarry might pose a threat or not. The former would certainly get Mustadio's unlikely protective instincts, and his even-less-likely role as her would-be protector, ablaze and she didn't want to take the risk that her quarry might catch a bullet if he proved…uncooperative.

No, it would be best if she interrogated Sir Damien alone, and made sure he could not escape.

"I appreciate the offer, but it is not necessary. I should be fine getting back by myself," she replied, and promptly wiped away Mustadio's crestfallen expression by cupping his chin with one finger. "Though this is the last night of the ball, I trust you will still be in Lesalia for a while longer?"

"Yes…at least until you are better and we can meet again, my lady," Mustadio affirmed, his frown promptly inverting itself.

Trying her best to avoid breathing a sigh of relief that her ploy had worked, Meliadoul gave the blond youth a hug.

"Thank you for understanding, Mustadio; but I have faith that I will be well enough to meet you again tomorrow. But, in the meantime, I ask that you take your own advice: Remember that you are always welcome in my home."

If he was still disappointed that his partner for the ball had to leave so abruptly, it was obvious that Mustadio understood and that the divine knight's promise had been more than enough to send his spirits soaring again.

"I understand, Melia. Have a good night."

The divine knight had to admit that nickname was growing on her. Then, deciding to sweeten her pledge that they could meet again, she decided that some of her old flirtatious teasing was in order. So, when Mustadio brought up one of her hands to kiss it, she forced their joined hands back downward and said:

"Ah, ah".

After taking an instant of mischievous delight in Mustadio's startled and almost crestfallen expression, Meliadoul gave a coy smile, turned her head slightly, and tapped her cheek.

"Up here," she instructed simply.

Looking fit to explode with delight, Mustadio raised himself on his toes and pressed his lips into Meliadoul's cheek. She promptly reciprocated, getting a goodly bit of Tynar Rouge on his cheek.

Wearing a very big and exceptionally stupid looking grin at what was quite possibly his first kiss, and from the woman of his dreams no less, Mustadio very nearly pirouetted out of the room, quite oblivious to the tittering and somewhat uncouth cheering in his wake. Watching him go, and with surprising longing to see him again, the divine knight, now the new commander of the Knights Templar, said:

"Good night, Mustadio. And, I hope we see each other again soon."

"Soon", however, would have to be later than she would've liked. For, though Mustadio's affections had given her healing and happiness, she now needed answers and closure.

And, to get those, she would need to track down a certain knight of Romandan stock and get him to talk.


	34. A Deception Uncovered

Though his heart ached at the notion, Izlude had been obliged to make a fast exit not long after his ring was once again upon Alma's finger. He had hoped to have another dance with her, maybe surreptitiously relay this success to Ramza and Malak, or even share the good news with Manon and Charlotte, who would soon be much akin to his step-children. However, upon realizing that his sister was in the ballroom, he decided that he could not risk it.

At least, not yet.

Though he ached at the prospect of parting from Alma so soon after they'd found each other again, and he suspected missing Manon and Charlotte's smiling faces upon hearing the news of the engagement was an opportunity he'd regret allowing to pass him by, he also knew that many things, including his unborn child's welfare, depended on him maintaining his secrecy for at least a little longer. Izlude vowed to make it up to them, to take Manon to watch the New Year's joust and to bring Charlotte all the sweets she could cram into her stomach (which, he wagered, was quite a bit), he quickly made his way to the castle stables, hoping that Meliadoul had not spotted him. Having faced the risk of exposure more than once in his long, strange journey, it was with the ease of long practice that he swept his face clean of anxiety, calmed his breathing, and unobtrusively made his way toward the exit, his long stride and calm steps never faltering. Though he had fully intended to reveal himself to Meliadoul, the knightblade knew that now was not a good time, especially since he had not yet pieced together a plausible explanation for his revival, even to Alma.

And, until he could, Izlude knew he could not let Meliadoul suspect him. The knightblade knew his elder sister could be extremely persistent when she wanted answers, and he could not afford to let her blow his cover.

Not only could being exposed harm Izlude himself and even his unborn child, but also Meliadoul as well.

Though he had sound reason to believe that the threat posed by the Lucavi had been overturned – though, for how long, who could say? – he also knew that, officially, Izlude Tingel was dead. And, if it became widely known that this was not so, it might raise unwanted questions about how he'd survived and just why he'd seen fit to disguise another's corpse as his own.

Such a truth, much like the truth behind the "holy" Zodiac Stones, was more dangerous than any lie.

He felt a curious pulse of energy in his pocket which evoked the image of someone, with a palpable degree of sarcasm, saying that they would endeavor not to take such words personally.

Though Izlude had no way of knowing whether the stone genuinely would consider one too many ill-mannered words as cause to suck out his soul and inflict all manner of desecrations on his body, the knightblade took the hint and once more affirmed that trying the stone's patience would not be wise.

 _No offense, but I_ really _don't like the idea of seeing who can and cannot have as….amicable a relationship as we do,_ he mused, long past thinking it odd to be, effectively, talking to a rock.

Luckily, it seemed Pisces did, in fact, embody empathy, for the stone promptly sent a pulse of understanding and fell quiet.

Not wanting the servants and guards he passed to suspect something was amiss, Izlude tried his best to maintain a steady pace and appear as calm and collected as he could while, at the same time, walk fast enough so that he could reach the stables and pick up Nelly and be on his way back to the inn where he was staying before Meliadoul could pick up his trail. Once he was safely back in his room, the knightblade could finally take time to think on how he could reveal his true identity to his once-again fiancée and sister without frightening or overwhelming them…or in Alma's case, causing a miscarriage.

After slipping past several servants and guards without raising too much interest among them beyond the inevitable lingering glances his exotic appearance attracted, Izlude finally arrived at the stables where he found both the stable boy who had taken his chocobo to a stall to be fed and watered while awaiting his return.

Upon seeing him, Eric was surprised. "Sir Damien! Are you leaving already? The ball isn't over for at least a few more hours!"

Izlude shook his head, hardly needing to feign disappointment at his abrupt exit. "I know. But, regrettably, something came up and I had to leave the Duchess of Lionel for the night. We'll meet again another time."

Although the knightblade knew he owed no explanation to the stable boy, Izlude still felt the need to give him an answer, if only out of courtesy for taking care of Nelly in his absence. Though, beyond that, was the fact that his dearly departed mother had always taught him to treat everyone with kindness and respect, regardless of their station in society.

He'd already had to make several painful compromises in order to slip away from Meliadoul, all of which he knew were necessary, but there was only so much he could abide in one evening.

Eric raised a brow. "The duchess? Oh, you mean Lady Catherine chose you? That's wonderful, Sir Damien!" the boy exclaimed with a broad grin.

Izlude gave a nervous laugh. "She has shown more interest in me than the others that came before, that is true. But, there is still much I need to do before we can make any announcements. Like asking for the blessing of King Delita and her brother, Duke Drake."

The boy nodded in understanding. "I see. I completely understand, sir. So, would you like me to prepare your chocobo?"

"Yes, please," Izlude answered. "But you need not do more than hand her over to me; I won't be riding Nelly tonight, I'll just walk back to the inn where I'm staying with her. It's not that far away."

"Of course, Sir Damien. Right away," Eric said before going to one of the stalls.

In what felt like yet another of fate's vindictive whims, the stall in question was one of the furthest back in the stables, and Eric wasn't exactly sprinting there. After long minutes of refraining from glancing over his shoulder to see if Meliadoul might be there, lest his eyes meet hers and betray him, he finally saw Eric open the wooden door before taking Nelly by the reins and leading her to Izlude.

Grateful that the boy decided not to press the matter of the engagement further, Izlude fished a fifty-gil bill from his pocket and pressed it into Eric's hand as soon as he'd returned with Nelly.

Upon seeing the generous gratuity, Eric surreptitiously pinched himself and then grinned from ear to ear.

"Thank you, sir!" he said, with unabashed enthusiasm. "That's mighty generous of you! I cannot believe my luck, but you're the second person to leave me such a generous gratuity this night!"

Izlude raised a brow. "The second, you say? And, who was the first?"

"Believe it or not, she was a tall and pretty lady; the new commander of the Knights Templar, Dame Meliadoul Tingel."

The knightblade could literally feel a bead of sweat coursing its way down the back of his neck at the mention of his sister's name and, for an irrational moment, wondered if it was possible that the young stable boy before him had deduced that there was some kind of connection between him and Meliadoul, even with the holy stone to disguise him.

Not wanting to stick around long enough to find out, Izlude quickly thought of a polite excuse to leave and be on his way.

"Interesting…though, I can assure you, the only thing a humble ex-bodyguard to the former Duke of Favoham and the commander of the Templars have in common is a keen eye for such fine service as you have provided tonight. Thank you for watching Nelly for me, Eric. Have a good night, and I hope you reward yourself well with that gil!"

To his relief, the stable boy decided to leave it at that.

"Thank you, sir. Good night to you as well. And, congratulations!" Eric waved merrily as the disguised knightblade disappeared into the shadowy streets.

 _Don't congratulate me yet, child. There is still much work to be done before I can claim Alma's hand…_ Izlude thought but held his tongue and finally led Nelly from the royal stables without another word.

As he'd left, knowing that he'd be forever denied seeing Manon and Charlotte's reaction to the man they'd already grown fond of effectively becoming their stepfather by marrying the woman they loved as a mother, he tried to content himself with imagining the scene. Surprised though he was at how much of a smile it brought to his face to contemplate his unlikely stepchildren, given their brief and unlooked-for acquaintance, he was even more surprised at how readily the image came, and the twinge it brought to his heart. He could see Manon, thrilled at the prospect of having another knight he'd come to respect to guide him as he earned his spurs, energetically slashing at the air with whatever might pass as a sword to his youthful imagination, and dancing back and forth across the marble. He could see Charlotte, rolling her eyes at the display, even as she whispered to herself that she did _not_ find Manon's smile charming and that such nonsensical thoughts could only be smothered with cake, of which there was no such thing as "too much".

 _Now that I think about it,_ he thought to himself, relieved that his musings were tugging the corners of his mouth upward, _perhaps after Alma and I get those two to admit to how they feel about each other, our next project should be getting that girl's eating habits under control._

More unbidden images – of him and Alma wrestling plates of confections from Charlotte, of Manon mounting his first chocobo while Alma and Charlotte looked on with pride and affection, and of the four of them, along with the other orphans of Lionel, gathered around the dinner table like a proper, if strange, family – flittered about Izlude's head and, though no substitute for the happiness so near and yet so far away, these musings would keep his spirits for a time.

* * *

As soon as he had left the castle well behind him, Izlude took a moment to glance around to ensure he was alone. Seeing few people about, and none of whom taking more than a passing interest in him, he breathed a sigh of relief and quietly tugged on Nelly's reins to prompt her to follow him. Aside from his inn being only a block or two away from the castle, Izlude felt that he would draw less attention leading his chocobo instead of riding her back.

Thankfully, there were few people on the streets at this hour, mostly ordinary folk preparing to close shop or finish whatever business they had in town before heading home for the night. And, as Izlude had hoped, no one paid him any mind since he made an effort to keep a low profile. Since the knightblade had left the ball early, no one from the castle was out and about, and it would probably be some time before anyone would even notice he was missing.

One of the fortuitous truisms about Lesalian gossip is that people could get so caught up in the canards and tidbits about a person that they notice only belatedly, if at all, that the person in question has departed. And, considering that he was the chosen suitor of Duchess Catherine Seymour, Izlude didn't doubt that they'd be titling and tattling over him for hours before they noticed his departure.

Hopefully, the gossips would, true to form, either assume he'd departed at a sensible time or not care either way, short of someone spotting his exit. As far as he knew, only Alma and Eric knew he'd departed early, and he doubted either would be whispering about it.

Sighing in relief, Izlude started off taking the same, steady strides he used when he left the ballroom and made his way to the inn. The knightblade hated the feeling of needing to get somewhere in a hurry, especially when he was heading _away_ from where he most longed to be, and yet at the same time not being able to run or walk too fast, lest he rouse the suspicion of those around him.

And, as for having seen Meliadoul at the ball, knowing how she'd grieved for him and yet not being able to tell him that he still lived, he liked that even less.

Now that he thought about it, Izlude knew he shouldn't have been surprised that his elder sister would be in attendance. As one of Ramza's companions who helped him to take down the Lucavi, there was no way Meliadoul wouldn't have been invited to the ball. And Mustadio _did_ inform Izlude when they had met at the tailor shop that he had come to Lesalia seeking her, hence the reason for his new haircut and flamboyant garb as well as attempts to imitate the suave mannerisms of one of the ancient, but charming, sky pirates of Ivalician antiquity.

Even though the knightblade knew he would have to face his sister eventually, Izlude decided that he would put that off for the moment until he could secure his engagement to Alma by getting the approval of the king as well as her brother's. He'd use the intervening time to come up with some explanation as to why he'd waited so long to tell her that would _not_ see him come away spitting teeth.

Unfortunately for Izlude, he was going to have to face his sister sooner than he had hoped. After he'd felt he was finally a safe distance away from Lesalia Castle, he'd become increasingly absorbed in his own thoughts regarding what to do next. So, the knightblade failed to notice that, as had been the case with Duke Malak Galthana, he had picked up another stalker in pursuit of his true identity.

One of Izlude's biggest mistakes was his sudden decision to take a shortcut back to his inn by passing through a narrow alley between two buildings instead of taking the longer path through the city square. Since the holy stone he carried had not given him any sign of danger, Izlude lowered his guard and started to walk a bit more slowly while giving Nelly the occasional tug to ensure she still followed his lead.

Just before he could get to the other side of the alley, Izlude suddenly felt a remarkably strong hand grab him by the shoulder and forcibly spin him around before slamming him into the nearby stone wall. The impact almost knocked the wind out of him.

Thinking that his assailant must be a robber after his newly invented, and quite full, wallet, Izlude felt more vexation than terror. He'd dealt with such thugs often enough, and was about to strike out at him or her to create enough space to draw his sword from its sheath but then he finally saw the face of his attacker. His own features promptly drained of color as he quickly recognized the one person he had left the ball early to avoid in the first place now looming over him and scowling fiercely.

Thinking quickly, Izlude tried his best to feign bewildered incredulity at his sister, several criticisms of this effrontery on the tip of his tongue, which he somehow managed to remember even when he saw Meliadoul giving him a glare almost frightening enough to kill.

"My lady! What is the meaning of this?!" the knightblade demanded in a strained whisper.

As children, Meliadoul had been taller than him and, unlike other sisters whose younger brothers outgrow them upon reaching adulthood, she still stood at least two inches over Izlude in height.

And was still considerably stronger as well.

"Don't play dumb," Meliadoul hissed. "I followed you here since you left the stables. What I want to know is how you obtained my brother's chocobo, Nelly. I'm also curious about why she's so friendly with you, considering that she would not let anyone besides him and myself ride her."

Trying his best to stay calm, as well as to inject a believable note of astonishment into his words, Izlude said: "What? My lady, are you telling me that this chocobo is a mount of the famed Knights Templar? Belonging to their late second-in-command, no less? I swear to you, I had no idea, my lady!"

Izlude had had more than enough successes, and more than enough close calls, to be able to look back upon his various performances with an objective eye. Given time and practice, the incriminating pauses from his speech and the self-conscious way his eyes drifted from the gaze of those he spoke to had ceased. By that same token, he'd learned how to harness his own great capacities for empathy, anger, contrition, and curiosity, so that he might endear himself to those who might help him to reunite with Alma, and perhaps even count themselves amongst his friends afterward.

The performance he'd just given would've been more than enough to convince the Fredericks, Sir Alian, the Boulder Devils, or even Alma herself…

…but, he got the distinct impression that Meliadoul would prove a much harsher critic.

"Where did you get Nelly?" she asked, steel in her tone.

The disguised knightblade inwardly cursed himself for ending up in this situation. Perhaps bluffing his way back into Alma's affections, unable to reveal the truth for the sake of her health, had stung him more than he'd been willing to admit to himself. After all, concocting a false history and peddling it to new acquaintances, even new friends, was one thing. But, as he'd discovered this night, doing so with someone he loved was quite another.

Or, maybe such a string of successes with his newly learned but well-honed skills in subterfuge had caused him to become overconfident and he'd been too dismissive of how likely, and how problematic, was the prospect of Meliadoul catching him as he made his exit?

Either way, he was now hemmed in, and by someone who he knew was neither easily fooled nor whose safety could be guaranteed if she learned the truth.

And, of course, _that_ was discounting the possibility that he'd be beaten black and blue if she discovered his deception. Mustering his reserve, Izlude composed his words carefully.

"I bought Nelly from a traveling merchant, not long after I chose to leave Duke Barrington's service and depart Riovanes," Izlude began, suspecting that the _Times_ made "Damien Mitchell's" former connection to Favoham too well known for him to talk his way around it. "I departed several weeks before the massacre, for Duke Barrington's mistreatment of his servants had run me out of patience. I'd heard tales of then-Sir Delita by that point and, though I'd not met the man, I suspected he'd be a commander to whom I could happily pledge my sword. As I trekked into Yardow, I learned of a merchant who was selling a number of fine chocobos at bargain prices."

Here, Izlude paused and allowed a hint of self-deprecation to seep into his tone.

"With the Battle of Fort Besselat looking to decide the war one way or the other, I'd feared what chance I had to enter Sir Delita's service would be lost if I had to walk all the way there, and my severance pay was quite meager. The merchant selling such fine mounts, and for a pittance, was too good an opportunity to pass up."

Again, Izlude paused. When he spoke again, he hardly needed to feign the contrition in his tone.

"I swear to you, my lady," he began earnestly, "I had no idea Nelly even had a former owner, let alone that she belonged to your late brother, and I've never had any problems handling her."

Here, Izlude's words trailed away as he caught sight of his sister's expression. He had half expected her to appear dejected at being played false by this faint glimmer of hope that her brother might not be dead after all, perhaps followed by anger at the interloping knight of foreign stock who'd unwittingly helped himself to her dead kin's property. He'd been expected both, and bracing himself accordingly, many protestations of innocence and sympathy for her loss couched upon his tongue and ready to be sent forth…

…and, he hated it.

Rationalizing the act with Alma had been painful, but the peril to her health and that of his unborn child and been enough to fortify his reserve and to keep his aching heart from betraying his secrets. Yet, the act had been trying and left him raw.

Too raw to repeat such a feat so soon.

And, with his reserve so sorely tested, perhaps that explained why the next words to pass his lips were so ill-advised.

"I know it is hardly the same as having your brother back, my lady," he began, speaking too fast for his normally sound wits to interfere. "But, if you wish it, I can return Nelly to you."

If the divine knight's eyebrow arching at these words wasn't enough of a hint that he'd somehow miscalculated, then the indignant "WARK!" from Nelly, and the reproachful peck she gave him, certainly was.

"You must be quite charming indeed to command such loyalty from so stubborn a mount, especially so soon after you _bought_ her from a "traveling merchant"," Meliadoul opined, though her tone had the hairs on the back of Izlude's neck standing on end. "But, aren't you forgetting something?"

The disguised knightblade was suddenly very certain that he'd forgotten something, not the smallest reason being that he could feel the stone vibrating urgently enough to corroborate his sister's ominous words. Yet, though he searched his memory frantically for whatever the divine knight might be referring to, he remained unilluminated.

"I…am afraid I do not understand, my lady," he admitted, hardly needing to feign incomprehension.

"Do you?" the divine knight sneered before releasing Izlude and stepping back slightly. Reaching into the pocket of her cloak, Meliadoul pulled out what appeared to be a gold-tone coin-like object. Holding it between her thumb and forefinger, she held it out for Izlude to see.

Izlude managed to keep his gaze steady and his breathing calm at the sight of it. Barely.

Though it had been months since Izlude abandoned the only thing he had left that could identify him as a son of the Tingel family, there was no mistaking his dog tag, which he had exchanged for the true Damien Mitchell's when he'd claimed the dead man's identity as his own.

But there was no way he could let Meliadoul know that, so Izlude did his best to feign ignorance.

"What is that?" he asked, trying his best to remain calm and allowing nothing but perplexity to cross his features.

Meliadoul snorted. "Are you saying you don't recognize it? It belonged to my late brother, the true owner of your chocobo, Nelly, who I gave as a birthday gift. It was only a few months ago that he perished at Riovanes. And furthermore, I discovered that none of the survivors of the massacre had escaped with _any_ of the chocobos at the castle, especially since they had barely escaped with their lives. Yet, someone had released those animals kept in the stables, likely so they wouldn't starve to death waiting for owners who'd never return. Remember, these weren't pack animals free to all finders. These were mounts trained for combat, and trained to run to the nearest outpost they know of if left riderless for too long. They're also trained to be…very uncooperative with strangers and can only be trained to accept new riders by specialists. So, how is it that this "traveling merchant" you describe managed to catch a knight's mount when it had the advantage of the open field? And, more to the point, how is it that you have Nelly, who'd bite a stranger's fingers from his hand before letting him mount? You couldn't have possibly bought her from a traveling merchant as you claim!"

Izlude could only assume that his borrowed face's natural paleness was the only reason Meliadoul hadn't pointed out how he'd been blanching this whole time.

With an inward snarl, he cursed himself for a fool. Although he'd been aware of such safeguards designed to make war chocobos very difficult to steal, Nelly had served him so well and for so long that this information went unused and later forgotten. And, the divine knight before him had, very thoroughly, used this oversight to snare him. Now that he was thoroughly cornered, psychologically as well as physically, Izlude finally stared to panic. Yet, he still refused to reveal anything that would confirm his sister's suspicions that he was not truly the knight whose identity he'd claimed.

"I…I don't know what you mean, my lady!" Izlude spluttered, his words sounding suspect even to his own ears.

In reply to his stubborn denial, Meliadoul smiled coldly before she suddenly grabbed his left wrist in a grip of iron and twisted it around, causing him to wince in pain as his palm was forced upward. What Meliadoul saw there made her gasp as she beheld the one thing that finally confirmed what she had suspected since she'd caught sight of him in the castle ballroom.

Confused, Izlude looked down at his own hand to see what Meliadoul found so astonishing and he found himself gasping as well when he saw his strawberry sized birthmark on the inside of his left wrist.

Bewildered, the knightblade did not even have enough time to think about how his birthmark had suddenly reappeared after being disguised by the holy stone for months, especially given that he was positive the telltale mark had not been there five minutes ago, when he suddenly caught sight of his sister's expression.

Had Izlude blanched any more, he might've been mistaken for some new subspecies of undead.

Not that he could be blamed, of course. After all, he had dared to lie straight to Meliadoul's face, something he had never done as a child, partly because he knew how hazardous it could be to one's health. Meliadoul's expression was a mixture of anger as well as hurt at the realization that Izlude had kept the fact that he had indeed survived and escaped the Riovanes massacre from her for months.

Months she had spent grieving, months she had spent in bitter loneliness, months she had spent in self-recrimination at not having seen that their father had been subverted by the Lucavi and acted to prevent such a tragedy, months spent trying to drown her sorrows in the blood of demonkind.

Izlude was, as those of the cruder persuasions would have put it, screwed.

"Did you think that I would not know my own little brother?!" the divine knight asked, her eyes brimming with hot tears of anger. "Why, Izlude? Why the deception? If you were alive all this time, why did you not make yourself known to me?!"

Knowing that he could deny his true identity no longer, the knightblade finally caved.

"I…I couldn't! There were reasons!" he said, already wondering if he'd soon be parting company with a few incisors or a few canines.

"Such as?" Meliadoul asked, her tone suggesting that her thoughts mirrored Izlude's own.

Izlude took a deep breath. Now that his sister knew he was alive, he had no choice but to tell her the truth. After all, what else could he do? But the problem was, would she believe it?

Seeing no other option, the knightblade did his best to give Meliadoul a, very, short recounting of what had happened to him, from the time he was revived by the Holy Stone up until he made his way to Lesalia to vie for Alma's hand.

He hardly needed the stone's precautionary pulsing to know that including the part about Alma being pregnant by him out of wedlock would be a very, _very_ bad idea.

"I didn't mean to deceive you, Melly, honest!" Izlude insisted. "I just wasn't sure how to tell you, even _if_ I could. I had no way of knowing which Templars were and weren't in on fath-and I mean Hashmalum's plot. If he'd thought you knew too much, he would've killed you. And, even if I had some way to contact you, what was I going to say? "Hello, I know I look like a Romandan now, and I sound like the sort of yokel you see wearing a kilt and torturing people with bagpipe music in the Favoham highlands, but I'm actually your brother who's not dead but was resurrected by one of those holy stones you read about in the gospel, which aren't actually holy and turn people into demons by the way. I'd stick around, but I need to find my girlfriend, who's the younger sister of the most infamous heretic of the last century. Yeah, the same guy who impaled you at Bervenia. And, by the way, my girlfriend's sadly been abducted by our father who, even more sadly than that, had his soul evicted by a demon, the same one that killed me, over a decade ago. Just though you should know, bye!""

At some point during this tirade, Izlude suddenly recalled that Meliadoul hated sarcasm.

Really, _really_ hated it.

It was no longer a question of whether he'd soon part with his incisors or his canines, but whether he'd soon be short a molar or two as well.

"I'm so sorry, Melly," he said after a long pause. "I wanted to tell you at Bervenia, if only to stop you and Ramza from killing each other, but I looked and even sounded different. So, I figured all I could do was to bide my time. I knew I needed to reveal myself to you, but I needed a bit more time to think about it, especially since I had no way of knowing if the stone would give me back my real face again. But, since you've decided to follow me, it's completely out of my hands now!"

Instead of saying that she didn't believe him as he expected, Meliadoul finally released Izlude and calmed down.

"So, it was as I suspected all along…" she muttered.

The knightblade was puzzled. "What?"

"After the Duke of Barrington had not been heard from and Riovanes Castle remained silent for too long, investigators from the church were sent there to find out why. The corpses that hadn't been squashed into jelly were brought to the castle morgue to be identified, and I was summoned by the priests who accompanied the church investigators to confirm whether or not the corpse clad in your armor and wearing your dog tag was yours."

Izlude stared at his sister in astonishment. "Did you know…?"

Meliadoul shook her head. "No…I was not certain. But I had my doubts…my suspicions…"

* * *

" _I have a bad feeling about this."_

_Meliadoul remembered Dame Anastasia Caldaur saying that when the pair had received the summons from the Lord Commander to travel to Riovanes Castle. At the time, the divine knight had thought only that her sister-in-arms had a gift for the melodramatic._

_Now, she thought it would be nearer the truth to say that Anastasia had a gift for understatement._

_The missive had said that the details were too sensitive to be relayed in a document that could, just possibly, be intercepted by unauthorized persons, and that the Templar commander in charge of the operation would brief her upon her arrival._

_The urgency, and secrecy, of this errand was obvious, though the need for it remained unclear. The Knights Templar – and, indeed, nearly all the might of the Church of Glabados – had been bent to the task of ensuring that the corrupt crown, which had failed the good people of Ivalice for the final time by leaving the kingdom defeated and destitute after the Fifty Years War, would be toppled and replaced with a puppet monarchy whose strings were guided by the deft but hidden hand of the High Confessor. This had meant fanning the copious, and quite hot, embers of dissent to ignite flame after flame of rebellion, goading the feuding dukes into a war neither could win and which all would lose, assassinating the leaders of either camp, and then plucking_ _the_ _role of mediator from the upraised hands of the grateful populace._

_This had meant that the church's agents were hard at work in the warring provinces of Lesalia, Gallione, Zeltennia, and Limberry, these efforts controlled from the heart of the church in Muround and supported by the church-controlled province of Lionel._

_So, why had Favoham suddenly become so important?_

_It had not aligned with either side, it was not nearly as populous as its neighbors, it had little to offer save the skills of its assassins and weaponeers, which no side had any lack of, and it had little strategic value in a conflict waged far to the east and south of its modestly sized borders._

_Indeed, if the seven provinces of Ivalice were to be sorted in accordance to the sum total of their importance to the church's plan to end this age of corruption, then Favoham would be at or near the bottom of the list._

_And yet, clearly, something had changed._

_Upon arriving, the two divine knights knew what._

_Riovanes Castle had become a charnel house._

_The scene that greeted the pair was so vile that Anastasia retched on the spot and only sheer willpower kept Meliadoul from doing likewise. Of the_ _more than_ _five hundred people who'd lived and worked within the castle, all_ _but a handful_ _had been slain. Their blood splattered across every surface, their limps strewn across the floor like the discarded toys of some demonic child, their entrails smeared over the walls. Some forms were largely whole, save for skulls that had been smashed like melons while others had been crushed into a jelly of gore and splintered bone._

_Meliadoul's nausea was overpowered, barely, by terror when she recalled that, just days before this happened, her father and brother had travelled here for some errand whose purpose was unknown to her._

_Without paying any heed to the people sent from the Glabados Church_ _who, like her, had discovered_ _the cause behind the prolonged silence from Riovanes_ _and_ _who were now_ _engaged in the solemn task of_ _cleaning up as well as attempting to identify the bodies that littered the castle hallways and courtyard, Meliadoul Tingel quickly made her way to the castle morgue._

 _Ignoring the overwhelming stench of blood and_ _the sight of the slaughtered, both of which were_ _almost overpowering to those attempting to_ _sift through_ _the dead_ _for some hint of which barely intact corpse was which_ _, there was only one thing was on Meliadoul's mind._

_Her younger brother, Izlude._

_What might've become him, she could not say…_ feared _to say. Though the summons had made no mention of this horrific slaughter, it had said that the few survivors whom the church had been able to find were far too unhinged to provide any useful information…but that there were a few bodies that needed identification._

_Meliadoul had hoped that the war chocobos missing from the stables, including Nelly, might've meant that her brother had escaped the carnage, and yet the knot of leaden dread her stomach had tied itself into only tightened with each passing moment._

It cannot be. It cannot be. It cannot be… _she thought frantically over and over._

He should have been out of Riovanes before this happened… _But the thought did little to soothe her nerves as she rushed down the dark stairway that led to the morgue_ _, fittingly located in the subterranean bowels of the_ _castle_ _and seemingly miles away_ _. She hadn't planned on imparting as much force to the doors at the bottom as she had,_ _but_ _the sound echoed up and down the otherwise muted hallway nonetheless._

 _A lone priest in the entryway jumped at the sound. He looked at her_ _in_ _shock for a moment,_ _possibly about to inquire why she was not accompanied by the commander who was leading this grim mission,_ _but his features quickly_ _became_ _sympathetic, as if he recognized who she was. Immediately, he made a courteous bow._

" _My lady…_ _,_ _" the young man began_ _,_ _but trailed off as if he didn't know what to tell her._

 _Although he did not say so, Meliadoul knew this priest was the one whom_ _she was meant to see, that the commander, had she found him, would've escorted her here to that she could_ _identify_ _a_ _corpse_ _that might be either that_ _of her brother_ _or her father_ _, the Templar commander Vormav Tingel. Normally, their father would have been summoned for this grim task but_ _,_ _since he was nowhere to be found at the moment,_ _and his corpse might very well be among the dead,_ _Meliadoul was called upon instead._

 _The divine knight brushed him off with a wave of her hand. She didn't need his sympathy_ _,_ _and they both knew it. Having no patience for formalities, the divine knight finally asked what they both knew was on her mind._

 _"Where is_ _the body_ _?" Her voice sounded hollow to her ears, completely devoid of emotion._ _"Or,_ _is it_ _"bodies"? Who have I lost?"_

_Not wanting to incite her anger, the priest remained silent and pointed west. Meliadoul's throat tightened even more._

_Without saying a word, she turned and walked to the west. Perhaps the priest followed her, but she_ _paid him no heed_ _. Her whole being was consumed with_ _the_ _thought_ _that one, or both, of the men dearest to her heart might've been killed in whatever atrocity had been wrought above_ _. She wouldn't permit another thought to enter her mind_ _, not even the torturous hope that one, or both, might've escaped_ _._

 _Meliadoul came to another door. This time she took more care as she opened it. The door emitted a low moan as it opened_ _, not unlike that of a predator opening its jaws to swallow her up_ _. Beyond the door was a darkened room; the only source of light was a handful of flickering candles giving it a palpable ominous aura. The light from outside the room cast her silhouette on a table and_ _threw into sharp relief_ _a body_ _over_ _which_ _draped a shroud of_ _white linen._

 _She stepped in. The darkness seemed to_ _deaden sound just as readily as it blotted out light_ _. Not her_ _armored_ _boots against the stone, not her rasping breath, nor her metal bracers clinking from her_ _trembling arms could shatter the funereal stillness_ _as she reached to pull back the white linen._

 _The enchantment shattered. Meliadoul's legs gave out from underneath her and her shin guards landed on the stone floor with a resounding crash. The sound reverberated off the walls of the small enclosed room. The_ _question of who she had lost, turned into a dark_ _mantra_ _over the seeming thousand steps that separated the door from the slab, ended_ _and was replaced by just one word._

" _NO_ _OOOOOOOOO_ _!_ _!"_

 _After being closed off in her mind for so long,_ _banked behind the same walls of sheer willpower that had kept her from adding the contents of her stomach to the menagerie of gore upstairs,_ _Meliadoul suddenly became painfully aware of her own body. Her hands clenched in fists, covering her eyes. Something wet rolled down her wrist._

Am I crying? _she wondered, a hint of astonishment amidst her sudden outpouring of grief._

 _There was little doubt as_ _crystalline drops of bitter liquid glistening on_ _her_ _gauntlets, trickling through the cracks to moisten her fingers_ _. Soon her whole body shook wracked with sobs._

No, _she thought; she tried to hold back the tears,_ I have to be strong…for him. _This gave her strength as she fought for composure. She wiped away the tears from her eyes and face. Slowly she climbed to her feet and commanded them to hold her upright._

 _She looked down at her brother's corpse that was clad in the same gold-tone armor and green_ _tabard_ _she had last seen him in. Unlike many victims of the massacre, Izlude's body_ _had not been gutted, nor dismembered, nor squashed into a bloody pulp. By some too small mercy, his corpse_ _still retained its human shape, something Meliadoul was grateful for. But the fact that his face was crushed beyond recognition didn't make it any less horrid for his sister's eyes._

 _She_ _tore_ _her eyes away from_ _the misshapen, splintered mass that used to be_ _her brother's_ _skull_ _as she drew back_ _more of_ _the linen_ _shroud_ _. She felt herself go pale. She had seen many battle wounds, but none such as this. His armor and tabard alike were shredded_ _, as though by the impossibly sharp claws of some creature sprung from nightmares,_ _and his chest and abdomen_ _were_ _nothing more than a bloody mess._

 _Fighting the_ _ever-present_ _urge to vomit, Meliadoul tore her eyes away from his corpse for a moment as she reached for his left hand and removed the_ _gauntlet and_ _bracer covering it_ _. Bracing herself for the worst, and wondering just how this_ could _be worse, she searched_ _for the birthmark on his wrist that only she, Izlude, and their parents knew he had._

 _But it was nowhere to be seen. Because the skin over the spot where it was supposed to be had been_ _savaged nearly to the bone_ _._

 _So_ _,_ _Meliadoul searched for the only other thing that could identify the ravaged corpse as her brother's: his gold-tone dog tag which still hung around his stiff neck._

 _As she had feared, there was no mistaking that the dog tag she had removed and now held in her hand was that of her younger_ _brother_ _._

_Vormav Tingel's fate remained unknown, but his son and her brother, Izlude Tingel, was dead._

_But still, something was amiss. Out of the corner of her eye, the divine knight noticed that the little hair that remained on the corpse's scalp was a shade_ _darker_ _than Izlude's_ _. She_ _knew her brother wasn't in the habit of coloring his hair_ _and, though it was not uncommon for the order's covert agents to make subtle alterations to their appearance in order to conduct their assignments without arousing attention, Izlude lacked the training and ability to dissemble which was requisite to spycraft_ _._ _And, it certainly didn't explain why Izlude had somehow become much,_ much _paler than even death could account for._ _Not only that, the faceless dead man lying on the cold stone table looked to be slightly taller than Izlude as well_ _,_ _which Meliadoul's keen eye had noticed despite the fact that his body was lying down._

_Even so, these subtle discrepancies were not enough to drown out the pure unadulterated rage that was beginning to build inside the divine knight and she instantly needed a name to put to the killer of her cherished younger brother._

_Gripping Izlude's dog tag, Meliadoul's hands balled into even tighter fists at her side._ _She squeezed so tight that her gauntlets creaking in protest against the metal of the dog tag_ _._

_"Who did this?" the divine knight demanded coldly, her voice tight with barely-restrained rage._

_The priest standing at the door jumped at the sound of her voice. "No one knows", he answered nervously as if he feared inciting Meliadoul's anger. "There are rumors, but…"_

_"Who did this?" she repeated, this time a bit more forcefully. The temperature in the room dropped as killer intent flooded the enclosed space and the priest knew he could put off giving the fallen knight's sister an answer no longer_ _. Especially_ _if he didn't want her to vent her rage on him._

_"Ramza Beoulve."_

" _Ramza Beoulve…" Meliadoul hissed. The name sounded familiar and_ _, with a silent thunderclap, she remembered. If_ _her memory served her right, the man in question was a son of the famous General Balbanes Beoulve who served the crown loyally during the Fifty Years War._ _Ramza himself had deserted the Hokuten following the destruction of the Corpse Brigade at Zeikden Fortress and was later implicated in the murder of Cardinal Draclau and the theft of a holy artifact._

_But none of that mattered to her. For what he had done, the divine knight had vowed to make him pay._

_With his life._

" _Ramza Beoulve…" Meliadoul repeated quietly before her face finally contorted with rage and she released an ear-shattering scream that made her only listener jump before cowering in fear._

" _YOUR BLOOD IS MINE!"_

* * *

"A bit later, after I'd calmed down a bit, I realized the claim that Ramza was responsible for the massacre didn't make sense," Meliadoul admitted. "Yeah, he was the most infamous heretic of the last century and he'd bloodied the church's nose several times. But, breaking into a castle and killing over five hundred people? Reportedly in a matter of minutes? It was hard enough to believe anyone could do that at all, let alone with such…such…savagery. So, when I ambushed Ramza at Bervenia, I said that I blamed him in part because, even if he hadn't been responsible, it stood to reason that he'd had something to say about it. He always seemed to be in the thick of things, after all. Just my luck that his explanation sounded ridiculous even with the benefit of hindsight, eh?"

"I know," Izlude agreed. "I swear, I would've thought the explanation he gave you in Bervenia was a tall tale if I hadn't seen Hashmalum face-to-face."

"Yeah, even after he spared me, and I had some evidence that he hadn't been responsible for the massacre, I thought maybe he sounded like some sort of addlepated idiot until I tracked him to Limberry and-"

Here, the divine knight paused as some of her brother's earlier words came back to her.

"My God. You said you followed him to Bervenia? That means you saw…"

She couldn't finish the sentence, but she didn't have to. Even after seeing Ramza heal her, even after seeing her whole and unharmed afterwards, the image of his sister, spitted upon the blade of the reluctant Ramza, would likely haunt Izlude until his second and final death.

"I'm so sorry, Melly…," Izlude apologized after hearing his sister's side of the story. "I shouldn't have brought up Bervenia. I mean, that gives _me_ nightmares, and I can barely imagine what it must've been like for you."

Having had his chest literally ripped to shreds by Hasmalum, Izlude could, indeed, imagine just what it had been like, albeit with the narrowest of margins. To, literally, behold death looming above through fading vision, the searing pain of the wound which, paradoxically, ached less and less and life ebbed away, and the far greater anguish of knowing all that had been left undone.

Only belatedly did he realize his slip in using the word "barely", which prompted a shiver of disapproval and warning from the stone, but it seemed Meliadoul hadn't taken notice.

At least, not yet. Now that she had unmasked him, the divine knight would no doubt demand that he be very, _very_ forthcoming.

"It was wrong of me not to tell you right away, but you must believe me when I say I didn't intend to keep this a secret forever," he continued, his words quavering. "I truly believed it was better for both of us if you remained ignorant until the time was right."

"Oh, and why is that?" Meliadoul demanded.

"Because if the Lucavi demon masquerading as our father knew I was alive, he would have sent his minions to finish me off for good, if not kill me himself. And, if he had reason to believe you knew I was alive, he might have gotten rid of you as well. And, again, it's not like I had any way to prove my identity…," Izlude answered tiredly, hoping his answer would satisfy Meliadoul.

And, as much as she hated to admit it, the divine knight knew her brother was likely right about their father…or more accurately, the demon who had taken his form to command the Templar. For all the pain it had caused her, for how near she'd come to total despair, she had to concede that Izlude's decision to keep the fact that he had miraculously escaped the Riovanes Castle massacre a secret from her was the correct one.

"Tsk, fine!" she said, her answer causing Izlude to drop his guard and give a sigh of relief as she turned away from him for a moment to reflect on his confession…

…which was a big mistake.

For while his sister agreed with the rationale behind his decision, it didn't mean she had to like it, which Meliadoul demonstrated when she suddenly spun around again and punched her little brother in the face.

Hard.

"THAT is for putting me through all that grief for nothing, you big idiot!" she screamed at him, hiccups punctuating her words as her eyes misted.

Izlude barely had time to process this before Meliadoul suddenly hurled herself at him, clutching him tight enough to squeeze air from his lungs, and began sobbing in his chest.

It had been a long time since he'd seen her cry like this. It had been a long time since he'd seen her cry at all. Though the recollection lay on the very fringe of his memory, for Izlude had been quite young at the time, he suspected that the last time he'd seen her cry like this had been when their mother had died. It had likely been the single worst day of either of the lives, recent events notwithstanding, and one of only a handful of instances where he'd seen his normally vivacious sister in tears.

And, he didn't like it.

He pondered whether he ought to just allow her to let out the grief she'd kept pent up behind a veritable dam of grim willpower or if he ought to say something that might allow some levity into this emotionally charged reunion.

He had quite a few things to say about her new boyfriend, all very cheekily worded.

He promptly reconsidered when he felt the stone in his pocket give a cold throb which had a distinct flavor of "SHUT THE HELL UP, YOU IDOIT!"

Perhaps Meliadoul sensed his train of thought, for she promptly echoed the sentiment. Still, despite the hour, Lesalia was a city that never truly slept, and it was not beyond the realm of possibility that someone on some manner of late night ramble might hear the divine knight's sobbing and decide to investigate. So, after managing to avoid bursting into flames when his speaking prompted a truly frightening glare from his sister, he suggested they talk more at the inn.

He had many reasons to wish for privacy, not the smallest being he didn't want to risk the wrong person noticing if the Pisces Stone made any further…changes to his disguise.

Still, as he walked Meliadoul back to the inn, which was thankfully quiet enough that no one noticed the pair, he swore he heard Meliadoul mutter something that sounded suspiciously like "so happy to have you back".

Knowing from prior experience that his sister did not appreciate being called out on her sentimental side, Izlude silently returned the sentiment.

In a strange and yet palpably real way, he felt like himself again at long last.


End file.
